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POEMS 


Psisso 


BY 

WILLIAM   CULLEN  BRYANT 


NEW  YORK 
JOHN  W.  LO YELL  COMPANY 
14  and  16  Vesey  Street 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Ages,  7 

To  the  Past,  26 

Thanatopsis,    .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  .29 

The  Lapse  of  Time,        .......  33 

To  the  Evening  Wind,     .......  36 

Forest  Hymn,  .........  38 

The  Old  Man's  Funeral,  43 

The  Rivulet,  45 

The  Prairies,   .       .  .49 

Earth,  54 

To  the  Apennines,  59 

The  Knight's  Epitaph,  62 

Seventy- Six,   .  -65 

The  Living  Lost,  67 

The  Strange  Lady,  „  69 

The  Hunter's  Vision,      .......  73 

Catterskill  Falls,  76 

The  Hunter  of  the  Prairies,     .       .       .       .       .  .81 

The  Damsel  of  Peru,       .......  84 

A  Song  of  Pitcairn's  Island,  87 

Rizpah,    ..........  89 

The  Indian  Girl's  Lament,      ......  93 

The  Arctic  Lover,  96 

The  Massacre  at  Scio,  98 


4  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Version  of  a  fragment  of  Simonides,  99 

The  Greek  Partisan,        .       .       .       .       .       ,  .101 

Romero,  103 

Monument  Mountain,      .......  107 

The  Murdered  Traveller, .       .       .       .       .       .       .  113 

Song  of  the  Greek  Amazon,     .       .       .       .       .  .115 

The  African  Chief,  .       .       .       .       .       .       .  .117 

Song — "  Soon  as  the  glazed  and  gleaming  snow,"     .  .120 

An  Indian  Story,  121 

The  Hunter's  Serenade,  .......  125 

Song  of  Marion's  Men,   .128 

Song — "Dost  thou  idly  ask  to  hear,"  .  .  .  .  131 
Love  and  Folly,       ........  133 

Fatima  and  Raduan,  135 

The  Death  of  Aliatar,  138 

The  Alcayde  of  Molina,  .......  141 

From  the  Spanish  of  Villegas,  ......  144 

The  Life  of  the  Blessed,  .       .       .       .       .       .       .  145 

Mary  Magdalen,  147 

The  Siesta,  149 

From  the  Spanish  of  Pedro  de  Castro,  etc.,      .       .       .  151 
The  Count  of  Greiers — From  the  German,       .       .       .  153 
Song — From  the  Spanish,        .       .       .       .       .       .  157 

Sonnet — From  the  Portuguese  of  Semedo,       .       .       .  158 
Love  in  the  Age  of  Chivalry,    .       .       .       .       .       .  159 

The  Love  of  God,    ........  161 

The  Hurricane,       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .  163 

March,  165 

Spring  in  Town,  167 

Summer  Wind,        .       .       .       .       .       .        .  .170 

Autumn  Woods,  172 

A  Winter  Piece,  175 

"  Oh  fairest  of  the  rural  maids,"  181 

The  Disinterred  Warrior,  182 

The  Greek  Boy,  184 

"Upon  the  mountain's  distant  head,"  ....  186 
Sonnet— William  Tell,  187 


CONTENTS.  5 

PAGE 

To  the  River  Arve,  188 

Inscription  for  the  Entrance  to  a  Wood,  ....  190 
"When   the    firmament  quivers  with  daylight's  young 

beam,"  192 
A  scene  on  the  Banks  of  the  Hudson,  ....  194 
The  West  Wind,     ........  196 

To  a  Mosquito,  198 

"  I  broke  the  spell  that  held  me  long,"  ....  201 
The  Conjunction  of  Jupiter  and  Venus,     .       .       .  203 

June,   207 

The  Two  Graves,  210 

The  New  Moon,  214 

The  Gladness  of  Nature,  216 

To  the  Fringed  Gentian,  218 

"  Innocent  Child  and  Snow-white  Flower,"  .  .  .219 
Sonnet — Midsummer,      .......  220 

Sonnet — October,  221 

Sonnet — November,   .  222 

A  Meditation  on  Rhode  Island  Coal,  ....  223 
An  Indian  at  the  Burial-place  of  his  Fathers,  .  .  .  228 
Sonnet — To  Cole,  the  painter,  departing  for  Europe,  .  232 
Green  River,    .........  233 

To  a  Cloud,   236 

After  a  Tempest,     ........  238 

The  Burial-place — A  Fragment,       .....  241 

The  Yellow  Violet,  244 

"I  cannot  forget  with  what  fervid  devotion,"  .  .  .  246 
Lines  on  revisiting  the  Country,       .....  248 

Sonnet — Mutation,   .       .  250 

Hymn  to  the  North  Star, .       .       .       .       .       .  .251 

The  Twenty- second  of  December,    .....  253 

Ode  for  an  Agricultural  Celebration,  .       .       .       .  -254 

A  Walk  at  Sunset,  256 

Hymn  of  the  Waldenses,  .......  260 

Song  of  the  Stars,    ........  262 

Hymn  of  the  City,   ........  265 

"No  Man  knoweth  his  Sepulchre,"  267 


6  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

"  Blessed  are  they  that  mourn,' '  286 

The  Skies,  270 

The  Journey  of  Life,  272 

Sonnet  —  To  ,  273 

Death  of  the  Flowers,      .......  274 

Hymn  to  Death,  277 

"  Earth's  Children  cleave  to  Earth,"  284 

To  a  Waterfowl,  285 

The  Battle-field,  289 

An  Incident  at  Sorrento,  .        .       .        .       .        .  .291 

The  Fountain,  .........  294 

The  Winds,     .........  300 

The  Green  Mountain  Boys,  304 

The  Death  of  Schiller,  306 

Life,  308 

A  Presentiment,       .  311 

The  Future  Life,  313 

The  Old  Man's  Counsel,  315 

The  Child's  Funeral,  319 

A  Serenade,     .........  322 

To  the  Memory  of  William  Leggett,        ....  325 

An  Evening  Reverie,  326 

The  Painted  Cup,  329 

A  Dream,  331 

The  Antiquity  of  Freedom,      ......  334 

Notes,  339 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


THE  AGES. 


WHEN  to  the  common  rest  that  crowns  our 
days, 

Called  in  the  noon  of  life,  the  good  man  goes, 
Or  full  of  years,  and  ripe  in  wisdom,  lays 
His  silver  temples  in  their  last  repose  ; 
When,  o'er  the  buds  of  youth,  the  death-wind 
blows, 

And  blights  the  fairest  ;  when  our  bitterest 
tears 

Stream,  as  the  eyes  of  those  that  love  us 
close, 

We  think  on  what  they  were,  with  many  fears 
Lest  goodness  die  with  them,  and  leave  the 
coming  years. 


8 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


II. 

And  therefore,  to  our  hearts,  the  days  gone 
by,- 

When  live  the  honored  sage  whose  death  we 
wept, 

And  the  soft  virtues  beamed  from  many  an 
eye, 

And  beat  in  many  a  heart  that  long  has 
slept, — 

Like  spots  of  earth  where  angel-feet  have 
stepped — 

Are  holy  ;  and  high-dreaming  bards  have  told 
Of  times  when  worth  was  crowned,  and  faith 
was  kept, 

Ere  friendship  grew  a  snare,  or  love  waxed 
cold — 

Those  pure  and  happy  times — the  golden  days 
of  old. 

III. 

Peace  to  the  just  man's  memory,-— let  it  grow 
Greener  with  years,  and  blossom  through  the 
flight 

Of  ages  ;  let  the  mimic  canvas  show 
His  calm  benevolent  features  ;  let  the  light 
Stream  on  his  deeds  of  love,  that  shunned 
the  sight 

Of  all  but  heaven,  and,  in  the  book  of  fame, 
The  glorious  record  of  his  virtues  write, 


THE  AGES. 


9 


And  hold  it  up  to  men,  and  bid  them  claim 
A  palm  like  his,  and  catch  from  him  the  hal- 
lowed flame. 


But  oh,  despair  not  of  their  fate  who  rise 
To  dwell  upon  the  earth  when  we  withdraw  ; 
Lo  !  the  same  shaft  by  which  the  righteous 
dies, 

Strikes  through  the  wretch  that  scoffed  at 

mercy's  law, 
And  trode  his  brethren  down,  and  felt  no  awe 
Of  Him  who  will  avenge  them.  Stainless 

worth, 

Such  as  the  sternest  age  of  virtue  saw, 
Ripens,  meanwhile,  till  time  shall  call  it  forth 
From  the  low  modest  shade,  to  light  and  bless 
the  earth. 


Has  Nature,  in  her  calm,  majestic  march, 
Faltered  with  age  at  last  ?  does  the  bright  sun 
Grow  dim  in  heaven  ?  or,  in  their  far  blue 
arch, 

Sparkle  the  crowd  of  stars,  when  day  is  done, 
Less  brightly  ?  when  the  dew-lipped  Spring 
comes  on, 

Breathes  she  with  airs  less  soft,  or  scents  the 
sky 


JO 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


With  flowers  less  fair  than  when  her  reign  be- 
gun ? 

Does  prodigal  Autumn,  to  our  age,  deny 
The  plenty  that  once  swelled  beneath  his  sober 
eye  ? 

VI. 

Look  on  this  beautiful  world,  and  read  the 
truth 

In  her  fair  page  ;  see,  every  season  brings 
New  change,  to  her,  of  everlasting  youth  ; 
Still  the  green  soil,  with  joyous  living  things, 
Swarms,  the  wide  air  is  full  of  joyous  wings, 
And  myriads,  still,  are  happy  in  the  sleep 
Of  ocean's  azure  gulfs,  and  where  he  flings 
The  restless  surge.    Eternal  Love  doth  keep 
In  his  complacent  arms,  the  earth,  the  air,  the 
deep. 

VII. 

Will  then  the  merciful  One,  who  stamped  our 
race 

With  his  own  image,  and  who  gave  them 
sway 

O'er  earth,  and  the  glad  dwellers  on  her  face, 
Now  that  our  flourishing  nations  far  away 
Are  spread,  where'er  the  moist  earth  drinks 
the  day, 

Forget   the  ancient  care   that  taught  and 
nursed 


THE  AGES. 


1 1 


His  latest  offspring  ?  will  he  quench  the  ray 
Infused  by  his  own  forming  smile  at  first, 
And  leave  a  work  so  fair  all  blighted  and  ac- 
cursed ? 

VIII. 

Oh,  no  !  a  thousand  cheerful  omens  give 
Hope  of  yet  happier  days  whose  dawn  is  nigh. 
He  whose  has  tamed  the  elements,  shall  not 
live 

The  slave  of  his  own  passions  ;  he  whose  eye 
Unwinds  the  eternal  dances  of  the  sky, 
And  in  the  abyss  of  brightness  dares  to  span 
The  sun's  broad  circle,  rising  yet  more  high, 
In  God's  magnificent  works  his  will  shall 
scan — 

And  love  and  peace  shall  make  their  paradise 
with  man. 

IX. 

Sit  at  the  feet  of  history — through  the  night 
Of  years  the  steps  of  virtue  she  shall  trace, 
And  show  the  earlier  ages,  where  her  sight 
Can  pierce  the  eternal  shadows  o'er  their 
face  ; — 

When,  from  the  genial  cradle  of  our  race, 
Went  forth  the  tribes  of  men,  their  pleasant 
lot 

To  choose,  where  palm-groves  cooled  their 
dwelling-place, 


12 


BRYANTS  POEMS. 


Or  freshening  rivers  ran  ;  and  there  forgot 
The  truth  of  heaven,  and  kneeled  to  gods  that 
heard  them  not. 

X. 

Then  waited  not  the  murderer  for  the  night, 
But  smote  his  brother  down  in  the  bright  day, 
And  he  who  felt  the  wrong,  and  had  the 
might, 

His  own  avenger,  girt  himself  to  slay  ; 
Beside  the  path  the  unburied  carcass  lay ; 
The  shepherd,  by  the  fountains  of  the  glen, 
Fled,  while  the  robber  swept  his  flock  away, 
And  slew  his  babes.   The  sick,  untended  then, 
Languished  in  the  damp  shade,  and  died  afar 
from  men. 

XI. 

But  misery  brought  in  love — in  passion's  strife 
Man  gave  his  heart  to  mercy  pleading  long, 
And  sought  out  gentle  deeds  to  gladden  life  ; 
The  weak,  against  the  sons  of  spoil  and  wrong, 
Banded,  and  watched  their  hamlets,  and  grew 
strong. 

States  rose,  and,  in  the  shadow  of  their  might, 
The  timid  rested.    To  the  reverent  throng, 
Grave  and  time-wrinkled  men,  with  locks  all 
white, 

Gave  laws,  and  judged  their  strifes,  and  taught 
the  way  of  right. 


THE  AGES. 


13 


XTI. 

Till  bolder  spirits  seized  the  rule,  and  nailed 
On  men  the  yoke  that  man  should  never 
bear, 

And  drove  them  forth  to  battle  :  Lo  !  un- 
veiled 

The  scene  of  those  stern  ages  !    What  is 
there  ? 

A  boundless  sea  of  blood,  and  the  wild  air 
Moans  with  the  crimson  surges  that  entamb 
Cities  and  bannered  armies  ;  forms  that  wear 
The  kingly  circlet,  rise,  amid  the  gloom, 
O'er  the  dark  wave,  and  straight  are  swallowed 
in  its  womb. 

XIII. 

Those  ages  have  no  memory — but  they  left 
A  record  in  the  desert — columns  strown 
On  the  waste  sands,  and  statues  fall'n  and 
cleft, 

Heaped  like  a  host  in  battle  overthrown  ; 
Vast  ruins,  where  the  mountain's  ribs  of  stone 
Were  hewn  into  a  city  ;  streets  that  spread 
In  the  dark  earth,  where  never  breath  has 
blown 

Of  heaven's  sweet  air,  nor  foot  of  man  dares 
tread 

The  long  and  perilous  ways — the  Cities  of  the 
Dead  : 


14 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


XIV. 

And  tombs  of  monarchs  to  the  clouds  up- 
piled — 

They  perished — but  the  eternal  tombs  re- 
main— 

And  the  black  precipice,  abrupt  and  wild, 
Pierced  by  long  toil  and  hollowed  to  a  fane  ; — 
Huge  piers  and  frowning  forms  of  gods  sustain 
The  everlasting  arches,  dark  and  wide, 
Like  the  night  heaven  when  clouds  are  black 
with  rain. 

But  idly  skill  was  tasked,  and  strength  was 
plied, 

All  was  the  work  of  slaves  to  swell  a  despot's 
pride. 

XV. 

And  virtue  cannot  dwell  with  slaves,  nor  reign 
O'er  those  who  cower  to  take  a  tyrant's  yoke  ; 
She  left  the  down-trod  nations  in  disdain, 
And  flew  to  Greece,  when  liberty  awoke, 
New-born,  amid  those  beautiful  vales,  and 
broke 

Sceptre  and  chain  with  her  fair  youthful  hands, 
As  the  rock  shivers  in  the  thunder-stroke. 
And  lo  !  in  full-grown  strength,  an  empire 
stands 

Of  leagued  and  rival  states,  the  wonder  of  the 
lands. 


THE  AGES. 


15 


XVI. 

Oh,   Greece    thy  flourishing  cities  were  a 
spoil 

Unto  each  other ;  thy  hard  hand  oppressed 
And  crushed  the  helpless  ;  thou  didst  make 
thy  soil 

Drunk  with  the  blood  of  those  that  loved  thee 
best  ; 

And  thou  didst  drive,  from  thy  unnatural 
breast, 

Thy  just  and  brave  to  die  in  distant  climes  ; 
Earth  shuddered  at  thy  deeds,  and  sighed  for 
rest 

From  thine  abominations  ;  after  times 
That  yet  shall  read  thy  tale,  will  tremble  at  thy 
crimes. 

XVII. 

Yet  there  was  that  within  thee  which  has 
saved 

Thy  glory,  and  redeemed  thy  blotted  name  ; 
The  story  of  thy  better  deeds,  engraved 
On  fame's  unmouldering  pillar,  puts  to  shame 
Our  chiller  virtue ;  the  high  art  to  tame 
The  whirlwind  of  the  passions  was  thine  own  ; 
And  the  pure  ray,  that  from  thy  bosom  came, 
Far  over  many  a  land  and  age  has  shone, 
And  mingles  with  the  light  that  beams  from 
God's  own  throne. 


1 6 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


XVIII. 

And  Rome — thy  sterner,  younger  sister,  she 
Who    awed    the   world   with    her  imperial 
frown — 

Rome    drew  the   spirit   of  her   race  from 
thee, — 

The  rival  of  thy  shame  and  thy  renown. 
Yet  her  degenerate  children  sold  the  crown 
Of  earth's  wide  kingdoms  to  a  line  of  slaves  ; 
Guilt  reigned,  and  wo  with  guilt,  and  plagues 

came  down, 
Till  the  north  broke  its  floodgates,  and  the 

waves 

Whelmed  the  degraded  race,  and  weltered  o'er 
their  graves. 


XIX. 

Vainly  that  ray  of  brightness  from  above, 
That  shone  around  the  Galilean  lake, 
The  light  of  hope,  the  leading  star  of  love, 
Struggled,  the  darkness  of  that  day  to  break  ; 
Even  its  own  faithless  guardians  strove  to 
slake, 

In  fogs  of  earth,  the  pure  immortal  flame  ; 
And  priestly  hands,  for  Jesus'  blessed  sake, 
Were  red  with  blood,  and  charity  became, 
In  that  stern  war  of  forms,  a  mockery  and  a 
name. 


THE  AGES. 


17 


XX. 

They  triumphed,  and  less  bloody  rites  were 
kept 

Within  the  quiet  of  the  convent  cell  ; 
The  well-fed  inmates  pattered  prayer,  and 
slept, 

And  sinned,  and  liked  their  easy  penance  well. 
Where  pleasant  was  the  spot  for  men  to  dwell, 
Amid  its  fair  broad  lands  the  abbey  lay, 
Sheltering  dark  orgies  that  were  shame  to  tell, 
And  cowled  and  barefoot  beggars  swarmed 
the  way, 

All  in  their  convent  weeds,  of  black,  and  white, 
and  gray. 

XXI. 

Oh,  sweetly  the  returning  muses*  strain 
Swelled  over  that  famed  stream,  whose  gen- 
tle tide 

In  their  bright  lap  the  Etrurian  vales  detain, 
Sweet,  as  when  winter  storms  have  ceased  to 
chide, 

And  all  the  new-leaved  woods,  resounding 
wide, 

Send  out  wild  hymns  upon  the  scented  air. 
Lo  !  to  the  smiling  Arno's  classic  side 
The  emulous  nations  of  the  west  repair, 
And  kindle  their  quenched  urns,  and  drink  fresh 
spirit  there. 


i8 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


XXII. 

Still,  Heaven  deferred  the  hour  ordained  to 
rend 

From  saintly  rottenness  the  sacred  stole  ; 
And  cowl  and  worshipped  shrine  could  still 
defend 

The  wretch  with  felon  stains  upon  his  soul  ; 
And  crimes  were  set  to  sale,  and  hard  his  dole 
Who  could  not  bribe  a  passage  to  the  skies  ; 
And  vice,  beneath  the  mitre's  kind  control, 
Sinned  gayly  on,  and  grew  to  giant  size, 
Shielded  by  priestly  power,  and  watched  by 
priestly  eyes. 

XXIII. 

At  last  the  earthquake  came — the  shock,  that 
hurled 

To  dust, in  many  fragments  dashed  and  strown, 
The  throne,  whose  roots  were  in  another 
world, 

And  whose  far-stretching  shadow  awed  our 
own. 

From  many  a  proud  monastic  pile,  o'erthrown, 
Fear-struck,  the  hooded  inmates  rushed  and 
fled  ; 

The  web,  that  for  a  thousand  years  had  grown 
O'er  prostrate  Europe,  in  that  day  of  dread 
Crumbled  and  fell,  as  fire  dissolves  the  flaxen 
thread. 


THE  AGES. 


*9 


XXIV. 

The  spirit  of  that  day  is  still  awake, 
And  spreads   himself,  and   shall  not  sleep 
again  ; 

But  through  the  idle  mesh  of  power  shall 
break, 

Like  billows  o'er  the  Asian  monarch's  chain  ; 
Till  men  are  filled  with  him,  and  feel  how 
vain, 

Instead  of  the  pure  heart  and  innocent  hands, 
Are  all  the  proud  and  pompous  modes  to 
gain 

The  smile  of  heaven  ; — till  a  new  age  expands 
Its  white  and  holy  wings  above  the  peaceful 
lands. 

xxv. 

For  look  again  on  the  past  years  ; — behold, 
Flown,  like  the  nightmare's  hideous  shapes, 
away, 

Full  many  a  horrible  worship,  that,  of  old, 
Held,  o'er  the  shuddering  realms,  unques- 
tioned sway  : 
See  crimes  that  feared  not  once  the  eye  of  day, 
Rooted  from  men,  without  a  name  or  place  : 
See  nations  blotted  out  from  earth,  to  pay 
The  forfeit  of  deep  guilt ; — with  glad  embrace 
The  fair  disburdened  lands  welcome  a  nobler 
race. 


2d 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


XXVI. 

Thus  error's  monstrous  shapes  from  earth  are 
driven, 

They  fade,  they  fly — but  truth  survives  their 
flight ; 

Earth  has  no  shades  to  quench  that  beam  of 
heaven  ; 

Each  ray,  that  shone,  in  early  time,  to  light 
The  faltering  footsteps  in  the  path  of  right, 
Each  gleam  of  clearer  brightness,  shed  to 
aid 

In  man's  maturer  day  his  bolder  sight, 
All  blended,  like  the  rainbow's  radiant  braid, 
Pour  yet,  and  still  shall  pour,  the  blaze  that 
cannot  fade. 


XXVII. 

Late,  from  this  western  shore,  that  morning 
chased 

The  deep  and  ancient  night,  that  threw  its 
shroud 

O'er  the  green  land  of  groves,  the  beautiful 
waste, 

Nurse  of  full  streams,  and  lifter  up  of  proud 
Sky-mingling    mountains  that  o'erlook  the 
cloud. 

Erewhile,  where  yon  gay  spires  their  bright- 
ness rear, 


THE  AGES. 


2  I 


Trees  waved,  and  the  brown  hunter's  shouts 
were  loud 

Amid  the  forest  ;  and  the  bounding  deer 
Fled  at  the  glancing  plume,  and  the  gaunt  wolf 
yelled  near. 

XXVIII. 

And  where  his  willing  waves  yon  bright  blue 
bay 

Sends  up,  to  kiss  his  decorated  brim, 
And  cradles,  in  his  soft  embrace,  the  gay 
Young  group  of  grassy  islands  born  of  him, 
And  crowding  nigh,  or  in  the  distance  dim, 
Lifts  the  white  throng  of  sails,  that  bear  or 
bring 

The  commerce  of  the  world  ; — with  tawny  limb, 
And  belt  and  beads  in  sunlight  glistening, 
The  savage  urged  his  skiff  like  wild  bird  on  the 
wing. 

XXIX. 

Then,  all  this  youthful  paradise  around, 
And  all  the  broad  and  boundless  mainland, 
lay 

Cooled  by  the  interminable  wood,  that  frowned 
O'er  mount  and  vale,  where  never  summer 
ray 

Glanced,  till  the  strong  tornado  broke  his  way 
Through  the  gray  giants  of  the  sylvan  wild  ; 


22 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Yet  many  a  sheltered  glade,  with  blossoms 

gay, 

Beneath  the  showery  sky  and  sunshine  mild, 
Within  the  shaggy  arms  of  that  dark  forest 
smiled. 

XXX. 

There  stood  the  Indian  hamlet,  there  the  lake 
Spread  its  blue  sheet  that  flashed  with  many 
an  oar, 

Where  the  brown  otter  plunged  him  from  the 
brake, 

And  the  deer  drank  :  as  the  light  gale  flew 
o'er, 

The   twinkling  maize-field    rustled    on  the 
shore  ; 

And  while  that  spot,  so  wild,  and  lone,  and 
fair, 

A  look  of  glad  and  innocent  beauty  wore, 
And  peace  was  on  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 
The  warrior  lit  the  pile,  and  bound  his  captive 
there  : 

XXXI. 

Not  unavenged — the  foeman,  from  the  wood, 
Beheld   the  deed,  and   when  the  midnight 
shade 

Was  stillest,  gorged  his  battle-axe  with  blood  ; 


THE  AGES,  23 

All  died— the  wailing   babe — the  shrieking 
maid — 

And  in  the  flood  of  fire  that  scathed  the 
glade, 

The  roofs  went  down  ;  but  deep  the  silence 
grew, 

When  on  the  dewy  woods  the  day-beam 
played  ; 

No  more  the  cabin  smokes  rose  wreathed  and 
blue, 

And  ever,  by  their  lake,  lay  moored  the  light 
canoe. 


XXXII. 

Look  now  abroad — another  race  has  filled 
These  populous  borders — wide  the  wood  re- 
cedes, 

And  towns  shoot  up,  and  fertile  realms  are 
tilled  ; 

The  land  is  full  of  harvests  and  green  meads  ; 
Streams  numberless,  that  many  a  fountain 
feeds, 

Shine,  disembowered,  and  give  to  sun  and 
breeze 

Their  virgin  waters  ;  the  full  region  leads 
New  colonies  forth,  that  toward  the  western 
seas 

Spread,  like  a  rapid  flame  among  the  autumnal 
trees. 


24 


BRYANT'S  POEMS, 


XXXIII. 

Here  the  free  spirit  of  mankind,  at  length, 
Throws  its  last  fetters  off ;  and  who  shall 
place 

A  limit  to  the  giant's  unchained  strength, 
Or  curb  his  swiftness  in  the  forward  race  : 
Far,  like  the  comet's  way  through  infinite 
space, 

Stretches  the  long  untravelled  path  of  light 
Into  the  depths  of  ages  :  we  may  trace, 
Distant,  the  brightening  glory  of  its  flight, 
Till  the  receding  rays  are  lost  to  human  sight. 


xxxiv. 

Europe  is  given  a  prey  to  sterner  fates, 
And  writhes  in  shackles ;  strong  the  arms 
that  chain 

To  earth  her  struggling  multitude  of  states  ; 
She  too  is  strong,  and  might  not  chafe  in 
vain 

Against  them,  but  shake  off  the  vampyre 
train 

That  batten  on  her  blood,  and  break  their 
net. 

Yes,  she  shall  look  on  brighter  days,  and  gain 
The  meed  of  worthier  deeds  ;  the  moment  set 
To  rescue  and  raise  up,  draws  near — but  is  not 
yet. 


THE  AGES. 


25 


XXXV. 

But  thou,  my  country,  thou  shalt  never  fall, 
But  with  thy  children — thy  maternal  care, 
Thy  lavish  love,  thy  blessings  showered  on 
all— 

These  are  thy  fetters — seas  and  stormy  air 
Are  the  wide  barrier  of  thy  borders,  where, 
Among  thy  gallant  sons  that  guard  thee  well, 
Thou  laugh'st  at  enemies  :  who  shall  then 
declare 

The  date  of  thy  deep-founded  strength,  or  tell 
How  happy,  in  thy  lap,  the  sons  of  men  shall 
dwell  ? 


TO  THE  PAST. 


THOU  unrelenting  Past  ! 
Strong  are  the  barriers  round  thy  dark  domain, 

And  fetters,  sure  and  fast, 
Hold  all  that  enter  thy  unbreathing  reign. 

Far  in  thy  realm  withdrawn 
Old  empires  sit  in  sullenness  and  gloom, 

And  glorious  ages  gone 
Lie  deep  within  the  shadow  of  thy  womb. 

Childhood,  with  all  its  mirth, 
Youth,  Manhood,  Age,  that  draws  us  to  the 
ground, 

And  last,  Man's  Life  on  earth, 
Glide  to  thy  dim  dominions,  and  are  bound. 

Thou  hast  my  better  years, 
Thou  hast  my  earlier  friends — the  good — the 
kind, 

Yielded  to  thee  with  tears — 
The  venerable  form — the  exalted  mind. 


TO  THE  PAST. 


27 


My  spirit  yearns  to  bring 
The  lost  ones  back — yearns  with  desire  intense, 

And  struggles  hard  to  wring 
Thy  bolts  apart,  and  pluck  thy  captives  thence. 

In  vain — thy  gates  deny 
All  passage  save  to  those  who  hence  depart  ; 

Nor  to  the  streaming  eye 
Thou  giv'st  them  back — nor   to   the  broken 
heart. 

In  thy  abysses  hide 
Beauty  and  excellence  unknown — to  thee 

Earth's  wonder  and  her  pride 
Are  gathered,  as  the  waters  to  the  sea  ; 

Labors  of  good  to  man, 
Unpublished  charity,  unbroken  faith, — 

Love,  that  midst  grief  began, 
And  grew  with  years,  and  faltered  not  in  death. 

Full  many  a  mighty  name 
Lurks  in  thy  depths,  unuttered,  unrevered  ; 

With  thee  are  silent  fame, 
Forgotten  arts,  and  wisdom  disappeared. 

Thine  for  a  space  are  they — 
Yet  shalt  thou  yield  thy  treasures  up  at  last ; 

Thy  gates  shall  yet  give  way, 
Thy  bolts  shall  fall,  inexorable  Past  ! 


28 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


All  that  of  good  and  fair 
Has  gone  into  thy  womb  from  earliest  time, 

Shall  then  come  forth,  to  wear 
The  glory  and  the  beauty  of  its  prime. 

They  have  not  perished — no  ! 
Kind  words,  remembered  voices  once  so  sweet, 

Smiles,  radiant  long  ago, 
And  features,  the  great  soul's  apparent  seat ; 

All  shall  come  back,  each  tie 
Of  pure  affection  shall  be  knit  again  ; 

Alone  shall  Evil  die, 
And  Sorrow  dwell  a  prisoner  in  thy  reign. 

And  then  shall  I  behold 
Him,  by  whose  kind  paternal  side  I  sprung, 

And  her,  who,  still  and  cold, 
Fills  the  next  grave — the  beautiful  and  young. 


THANATOPSIS. 


To  him  who  in  the  love  of  nature  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings,  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their    sharpness,  ere    he   is    aware.  When 
thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 

Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 

And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 

Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart ; — 

Go  forth,  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 

To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around—. 

Earth  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air, — 

Comes  a  still  voice — Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 

The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 

In  all  his  course  ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 

Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 


5° 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.    Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall 
claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again, 
And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.  The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 
Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting-place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone— nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.    Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world — with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth — the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre. — The  hills 
Rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun, — the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 
The  venerable  woods — rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green  ;  and,  poured 
round  all, 

Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.    The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 
Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.    All  that  tread 


THAN  A  TOPSIS. 


31 


The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom. — Take  the  wings 
Of  morning — and  the  Barcan  desert  pierce, 
Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 
Where  rolls  the  Oregan,  and  hears  no  sound, 
Save  his  own  dashings — yet — the  dead  are  there  ; 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep — the  dead  reign  there  alone. 
So  shalt  thou  rest — and  what  if  thou  withdraw 
Unheeded  by  the  living — and  no  friend 
Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?    All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.    The  gay  will  laugh 
When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on,  and  each  one  as  before  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom  ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall 
come, 

And  make  their  bed  with  thee.    As  the  long 
train 

Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 
The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who 
goes 

In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 
And  the  sweet  babe,  and  the  gray-headed  man, — 
Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
By  those,  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 
So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  that  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 


32 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and 
soothed 

By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 


THE  LAPSE  OF  TIME. 


LAMENT  who  will,  in  fruitless  tears, 

The  speed  with  which  our  moments  fly; 

I  sigh  not  over  vanished  years, 

But  watch  the  years  that  hasten  by. 

Look,  how  they  come, — a  mingled  crowd 
Of  bright  and  dark,  but  rapid  days  ; 

Beneath  them,  like  a  summer  cloud, 
The  wide  world  changes  as  I  gaze. 

What !  grieve  that  time  has  brought  so  soon 

The  sober  age  of  manhood  on  ? 
As  idly  might  I  weep,  at  noon, 

To  see  the  blush  of  morning  gone. 

Could  I  give  up  the  hopes  that  glow 

In  prospect,  like  Elysian  isles  ; 
And  let  the  charming  future  go, 

With  all  her  promises  and  smiles  ? 
3 


34 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


The  future  ! — cruel  were  the  power 

Whose  doom  would  tear  thee  from  my  heart. 
Thou  sweetener  of  the  present  hour  ! 

We  cannot— no — we  will  not  part. 

Oh,  leave  me,  still,  the  rapid  flight 

That  makes  the  changing  seasons  gay, 

The  grateful  speed  that  brings  the  night, 
The  swift  and  glad  return  of  day  ; 

The  months  that  touch,  with  added  grace, 

This  little  prattler  at  my  knee, 
In  whose  arch  eye  and  speaking  face 

New  meaning  every  hour  I  see  ; 

The  years,  that  o'er  each  sister  land 

Shall  lift  the  country  of  my  birth 
And  nurse  her  strength,  till  she  shall  stand 

The  pride  and  pattern  of  the  earth  ; 

Till  younger  commonwealths,  for  aid, 
Shall  cling  about  her  ample  robe, 

And  from  her  frown  shall  shrink  afraid 
The  crowned  oppressors  of  the  globe. 

True — time  will  seam  and  blanch  my  brow — 

Well — I  shall  sit  with  aged  men, 
And  my  good  glass  will  tell  me  how 

A  grizzly  beard  becomes  me  then. 


THE  LAPSE  OF  TIME. 


And  should  no  foul  dishonor  lie 
Upon  my  head,  when  I  am  gray, 

Love  yet  shall  watch  my  fading  eye, 
And  smooth  the  path  of  my  decay. 

Then  haste  thee,  Time — 'tis  kindness  all 
That  speeds  thy  winged  feet  so  fast ; 

Thy  pleasures  stay  not  till  they  pall, 
And  all  thy  pains  are  quickly  past. 

Thou  fliest  and  bear'st  away  our  woes, 
And  as  thy  shadowy  train  depart, 

The  memory  of  sorrow  grows 
A  lighter  burden  on  the  heart. 


TO  THE  EVENING  WIND. 


SPIRIT  that  breathest  through  my  lattice,  thou 
That  cool'st  the  twilight  of  the  sultry  day, 

Gratefully  flows  thy  freshness  round  my  brow  ; 
Thou  hast  been  out  upon  the  deep  at  play, 

Riding  all  day  the  wild  blue  waves  till  now, 
Roughening  their  crests,  and  scattering  high 
their  spray, 

And  swelling  the  white  sail.    I  welcome  thee 

To  the  scorched  land,  thou  wanderer  of  the  sea  ! 

Nor  I  alone — a  thousand  bosoms  round 
Inhale  thee  in  the  fulness  of  delight  ; 

And  languid  forms  rise  up,  and  pulses  bound 
Livelier,  at  coming  of  the  wind  of  night ; 

And,  languishing  to  hear  thy  grateful  sound, 
Lies  the  vast  inland  stretched  beyond  the  sight. 

Go  forth,  into  the  gathering  shade  ;  go  forth, 

God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth  1 

Go,  rock  the  little  wood-bird  in  his  nest, 

Curl  the  still  waters,  bright  with  stars,  and 
rouse 


TO  THE  EVENING  WIND, 


37 


The  wide  old  wood  from  his  majestic  rest, 

Summoning  from  the  innumerable  boughs 
The  strange,   deep  harmonies  that  haunt  his 
breast  : 

Pleasant  shall  be  thy  way  where  meekly  bows 
The  shutting  flower,  and  darkling  waters  pass, 
And  'twixt  the  o'ershadowing  branches  and  the 
grass. 

The  faint  old  man  shall  lean  his  silver  head 
To  feel  thee  ;  thou  shalt  kiss  the  child  asleep, 

And  dry  the  moistened  curls  that  overspread 
His  temples,  while  his  breathing  grows  more 
deep  ; 

And  they  who  stand  about  the  sick  man's  bed, 

Shall  joy  to  listen  to  thy  distant  sweep, 
And  softly  part  his  curtains  to  allow 
Thy  visit,  grateful  to  his  burning  brow. 

Go — but  the  circle  of  eternal  change, 

Which  is  the  life  of  nature,  shall  restore, 
With  sounds  and  scents  from  all  thy  mighty 
range, 

Thee  to  thy  birthplace  of  the  deep  once 
more  ; 

Sweet  odors  in  the  sea-air,  sweet  and  strange, 

Shall  tell  the  home-sick  mariner  of  the  shore  ; 
And,  listening  to  thy  murmur,  he  shall  deem 
He  hears  the  rustling  leaf  and  running  stuam. 


FOREST  HYMN. 


The  groves  were  God's  first  temples.  Ere 

man  learned 
To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 
And  spread  the   roof   above   them, — ere  he 

framed 

The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 
The  sound  of  anthems  ;  in  the  darkling  wood, 
Amidst  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down 
And  offered  to  the  Mightiest,  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication.    For  his  simple  heart 
Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences, 
Which,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place, 
And  from  the  gray  old  trunks  that  high  in 
heaven 

Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and   from  the 
sound 

Of  the  invisible  breath  that  swayed  at  once 
All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bowed 
His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  power 
And  inaccessible  majesty.    Ah,  why 


FOREST  HYMN. 


39 


Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 
God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 
Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 
That  our  frail  hands  have  raised  ?    Let  me,  at 
least, 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood, 
Offer  one  hymn — thrice  happy,  if  it  find 
Acceptance  in  his  ear. 

Father,  thy  hand 
Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns,  thou 
Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.   Thou  didst  look 
down 

Upon  the  naked  earth,  and,  forthwith,  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.    They,  in  thy  sun, 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  thy 
breeze, 

And  shot  toward  heaven.    The  century-living 
crow, 

Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and 
died 

Among  their  branches,  till,  at  last,  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tall,  and  dark, 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshipper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker.  These  dim  vaults, 
These  winding  isles,  of  human  pomp  or  pride 
Report  not.    No  fantastic  carvings  show, 
The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 
Of  thy  fair  works.    But  thou  art  here — thou 
fill'st 


4o 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


The  solitude.    Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds, 
That  run  along  the  summit  of  these  trees 
In  music  ; — thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath, 
That  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place, 
Comes,  scarcely  felt  ; — the  barky  trunks,  the 
ground, 

The  fresh  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with 
thee. 

Here  is  continual  worship  ;  —  nature,  here, 
In  the  tranquillity  that  thou  dost  love, 
Enjoys  thy  presence.    Noiselessly,  around, 
From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 
Passes  ;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  'midst  its 
herbs, 

Wells  softly  forth  and  visits  the  strong  uoots 
Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 
Of  all  the  good  it  does.    Thou  hast  not  left 
Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades, 
Of  thy  perfections.     Grandeur,  strength,  and 
grace 

Are  here  to  speak  of  thee.    This  mighty  oak — 

By  whose  inmovable  stem  I  stand  and  seem 

Almost  annihilated — not  a  prince, 

In  all  that  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep, 

E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 

Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves  with  which 

Thy  hand  has  graced  him.    Nestled  at  his  root 

Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 

Of  the  broad  sun..  .  That  delicate  forest  flower, 

With  scented  breath,  and  look  so  like  a. smile, 


FOREST  HYMN, 


4i 


Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mould, 
An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 
A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 
That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  universe. 

My  heart  is  awed  within  me,  when  I  think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on, 
In  silence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
Forever.    Written  on  thy  works  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo  !  all  grow  old  and  die — but  see,  again, 
How  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay 
Youth  presses — ever  gay  and  beautiful  youth 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms.    These  lofty  trees 
Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Moulder  beneath  them.     Oh,  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  earth's  charms  :  upon  her  bosom  yet, 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries, 
The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies 
And  yet  shall  lie.    Life  mocks  the  idle  hate 
Of  his  arch  enemy  Death — yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  tyrant's  throne — the  sepulchre, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.    For  he  came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 

There  have  been  holy  men  who  hid  them- 
selves 

Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 


42 


BRYANTS  POEMS. 


Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer,  till  they  out- 
lived 

The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seemed 
Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them  ; — and  there  have  been  holy  men 
Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 
But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Retire,  and  in  thy  presence  reassure 
My  feeble  virtue.    Here  its  enemies, 
The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps  shrink 
And  tremble  and  are  still.  Oh,  God  !  when  thou 
Dost  scare  the  wrorld  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill, 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament, 
The  swift  dark  whirlwind  that  uproots  the  woods 
And  drowns  the  villages  ;  when,  at  thy  call, 
Uprises  the  great  deep  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities — who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies  by  ? 
Oh,  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine,  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 
Of  the  mad  unchained  elements  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.    Be  it  ours  to  meditate 
In  these  calm  shades  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works, 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives. 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  FUNERAL. 


I  SAW  an  aged  man  upon  his  bier, 

His  hair  was  thin  and  white,  and  on  his  brow 
A  record  of  the  cares  of  many  a  year  ; — 

Cares  that  were  ended  and  forgotten  now. 
And  there  was  sadness  round,  and  faces  bowed, 
And  woman's  tears  fell  fast,  and  children  wailed 
aloud. 

Then  rose  another  hoary  man  and  said, 
In  faltering  accents,  to  that  weeping  train, 

Why.  mourn  ye  that  our  aged  friend  is  dead  ? 
Ye  are  not  sad  to  see  the  gathered  grain, 

Nor  when  their  mellow  fruit  the  orchards  cast, 

Nor  when  the  yellow  woods  shake  down  the 
ripened  mast. 

Ye  sigh  not  when  the  sun,  his  course  fulfilled, 
His  glorious  course,  rejoicing  earth  and  sky, 

In  the  soft  evening,  when  the  winds  are  stilled, 
Sinks  where  his  islands  of  refreshment  lie, 

And  leaves  the  smile  of  his  departure,  spread 

Oer  the  warm-colored  heaven  and  ruddy  moun- 
tain head. 


44 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Why  weep  ye  then  for  him,  who,  having  won 
The  bound  of  man's  appointed  years,  at  last, 

Life's  blessings  all  enjoyed,  life's  labors  done, 
Serenely  to  his  final  rest  has  passed  ; 

While  the  soft  memory  of  his  virtues,  yet, 

Lingers  like  twilight  hues,  when  the  bright  sun 
is  set. 

His  youth  was  innocent  ;  his  riper  age, 

Marked  with  some  act  of  goodness,  every  day; 
And  watched  by  eyes  that  loved  him,  calm,  and 
sage, 

Faded  his  late  declining  years  away. 
Cheerful  he  gave  his  being  up,  and  wrent 
To  share  the  holy  rest  that  waits  a  life  well 
spent. 

That  life  was  happy  ;  every  day  he  gave 
Thanks  for  the  fair  existence  that  was  his ; 

For  a  sick  fancy  made  him  not  her-slave, 
To  mock  him  with  her  phantom  miseries. 

No  chronic  tortures  racked  his  aged  limb, 

For  luxury  and  sloth  had  nourished  none  for  him. 

And  I  am  glad,  that  he  has  lived  thus  long, 
And  glad,  that  he  has  gone  to  his  reward  ; 

Nor  deem,  that  kindly  nature  did  him  wrong, 
Softly  to  disengage  the  vital  cord. 

When  his  weak  hand  grew  palsied,  and  his  eye 

Dark  with  the  mists  of  age,  it  was  his  time  to  die. 


THE  RIVULET. 


THIS  little  rill  that,  from  the  springs 
Of  yonder  grove,  its  current  brings, 
Plays  on  the  slope  awhile,  and  then 
Goes  prattling  into  groves  again, 
Oft  to  its  warbling  waters  drew 
My  little  feet,  when  life  was  new. 
When  woods  in  early  green  were  dressed, 
And  from  the  chambers  of  the  west 
The  warmer  breezes,  travelling  out, 
Breathed  the  new  scent  of  flowers  about, 
My  truant  steps  from  home  would  stray, 
Upon  its  grassy  side  to  play, 
List  the  brown  thrasher's  vernal  hymn, 
And  crop  the  violet  on  its  brim, 
With  blooming  cheek  and  open  brow, 
As  young  and  gay,  sweet  rill,  as  thou. 

And  when  the  days  of  boyhood  came, 
And  I  had  grown  in  love  with  fame, 
Duly  I  sought  thy  banks,  and  tried 
My  first  rude  numbers  by  thy  side. 


46 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Words  cannot  tell  how  bright  and  gay 
The  scenes  of  life  before  me  lay. 
Then  glorious  hopes,  that  now  to  speak 
Would  bring  the  blood  into  my  cheek, 
Passed  o'er  me  ;  and  I  wrote,  on  high, 
A  name  I  deemed  should  never  die. 

Years  change  thee  not.    Upon  yon  hill 
The  tall  old  maples,  verdant  still, 
Yet  tell,  in  grandeur  of  decay, 
How  swift  the  years  have  passed  away, 
Since  first,  a  child,  and  half  afraid, 
I  wandered  in  the  forest  shade. 
Thou,  ever  joyous  rivulet, 
Dost  dimple,  leap,  and  prattle  yet ; 
And  sporting  with  the  sands  that  pave 
The  windings  of  thy  silver  wave, 
And  dancing  to  thy  own  wild  chime, 
Thou  laughest  at  the  lapse  of  time. 
The  same  sweet  sounds  are  in  my  ear 
My  early  childhood  loved  to  hear  ; 
As  pure  thy  limpid  waters  run, 
As  bright  they  sparkle  to  the  sun  ; 
As  fresh  and  thick  the  bending  ranks 
Of  herbs  that  line  thy  oozy  banks  ; 
The  violet  there,  in  soft  May  dew, 
Comes  up,  as  modest  and  as  blue ; 
As  green  amid  thy  current's  stress, 
Floats  the  scarce-rooted  watercress ; 


THE  RIVULET. 


And  the  brown  ground-bird,  in  thy  glen, 
Still  chirps  as  merrily  as  then. 

Thou  changest  not — but  I  am  changed, 
Since  first  thy  pleasant  banks  I  ranged  ; 
And  the  grave  stranger,  come  to  see 
The  play-place  of  his  infancy, 
Has  scarce  a  single  trace  of  him 
Who  sported  once  upon  thy  brim. 
The  visions  of  my  youth  are  past — 
Too  bright,  too  beautiful  to  last. 
I've  tried  the  world — it  wears  no  more 
The  coloring  of  romance  it  wore. 
Yet  well  has  Nature  kept  the  truth 
She  promised  to  my  earliest  youth 
The  radiant  beauty,  shed  abroad 
On  all  the  glorious  works  of  God, 
Shows  freshly,  to  my  sobered  eye, 
Each  charm  it  wore  in  days  gone  by. 

A  few  brief  years  shall  pass  away, 
And  I,  all  trembling,  weak,  and  gray, 
Bowed  to  the  earth,  which  waits  to  fold 
My  ashes  in  the  embracing  mould 
(If  haply  the  dark  will  of  fate 
Indulge  my  life  so  long  a  date), 
May  come  for  the  last  time  to  look 
Upon  my  childhood's  favorite  brook. 


48 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Then  dimly  on  my  eye  shall  gleam 
The  sparkle  of  thy  dancing  stream  ; 
And  faintly  on  my  ear  shall  fall 
Thy  prattling  current's  merry  call  ; 
Yet  shalt  thou  flow  as  glad  and  bright 
As  when  thou  met'st  my  infant  sight. 

And  I  shall  sleep — and  on  thy  side, 
As  ages  after  ages  glide, 
Children  their  early  sports  shall  try, 
And  pass  to  "hoary  age  and  die. 
But  thou,  unchanged  from  year  to  year, 
Gayly  shalt  play  and  glitter  here  ; 
Amid  young  flowers  and  tender  grass 
Thy  endless  infancy  shalt  pass  ; 
And,  singing  down  thy  narrow  glen, 
Shalt  mock  the  fading  race  of  men. 


THE  PRAIRIES. 


THESE  are  the  Gardens  of  the  Desert,  these 
The  unshorn  fields,  boundless  and  beautiful, 
For  which  the  speech  of  England  has  no  name — 
The  Prairies.    I  behold  them  for  the  first, 
And  my  heart  swells,  while  the  dilated  sight 
Takes  in   the  encircling  vastness.    Lo  !  they 
stretch 

In  airy  undulations,  far  away, 
As  if  the  ocean,  in  his  gentlest  swell, 
Stood  still,  with  all  his  rounded  billows  fixed, 
And  motionless  forever. — Motionless  ? — 
No — they  are  all  unchained  again.    The  clouds 
Sweep  over  with  their  shadows,  and,  beneath, 
The  surface  rolls  and  fluctuates  to  the  eye  ; 
Dark  hollows  seem  to  glide  along  and  chase 
The  sunny  ridges.     Breezes  of  the  South  ! 
Who  toss  the  golden  and  the  flame-like  flowers, 
And  pass  the  prairie-hawk  that,  poised  on  high, 
Flaps  his  broad  wings,  yet  moves  not — ye  have 
played 

Among  the  palms  of  Mexico  and  vines 
4 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Of  Texas,  and  have  crisped  the  limpid  brooks 
That  from  the  fountains  of  Sonora  glide 
Into  the  calm  Pacific — have  ye  fanned 
A  nobler  or  a  lovelier  scene  than  this  ? 
Man  hath  no  part  in  all  this  glorious  work  : 
The  hand  that  built  the  firmament  hath  heaved 
And  smoothed  these  verdant  swells,  and  sown 
their  slopes 

With  herbage,  planted  them  with  island  groves, 
And  hedged  them  round  with  forests.  Fitting 
floor 

For  this  magnificent  temple  of  the  sky— 

With  flowers  whose  glory  and  whose  multitude 

Rival  the  constellations  !    The  great  heavens 

Seem  to  stoop  down  upon  the  scene  in  love, — 

A  nearer  vault,  and  of  a  tenderer  blue, 

Than  that  which  bends  above  the  eastern  hills. 

As  o'er  the  verdant  waste  I  guide  my  steed, 
Among  the  high  rank  grass  that  sweeps  his 
sides, 

The  hollow  beating  of  his  footstep  seems 
A  sacrilegious  sound.    I  think  of  those 
Upon  whose  rest  he  tramples.    Are  they  here — 
The  dead  of  other  days  ? — and  did  the  dust 
Of  these  fair  solitudes  once  stir  with  life 
And   burn  with   passion  ?    Let    the  mighty 
mounds 

That  overlook  the  rivers,  or  that  rise 
In  the  dim  forest  crowded  with  old  oaks, 
Answer.    A  race,  that  long  has  passed  away, 


THE  PRAIRIES. 


Built  them  ; — a  disciplined  and  populous  race 
Heaped,  with  long  toil,  the  earth,  while  yet  the 
Greek 

Was  hewing  the  Pentelicus  to  forms 
Of  symmetry,  and  rearing  on  its  rock 
The  glittering  Parthenon.    These  ample  fields 
Nourished  their  harvests,  here  their  herds  were 
fed, 

When  haply  by  their  stalls  the  bison  lowed, 
And  bowed  his  maned  shoulder  to  the  yoke. 
All  day  this  desert  murmured  with  their  toils, 
Till  twilight  blushed  and  lovers  walked,  and 
wooed 

In  a  forgotten  language,  and  old  tunes, 
From  instruments  of  unremembered  form, 
Gave  the  soft  winds  a  voice.    The  red  man 
came — 

The  roaming  hunter  tribes,  warlike  and  fierce, 
And  the  mound-builders  vanished  from  the  earth. 
The  solitude  of  centuries  untold 
Has  settled  where  they  dwelt.  The  prairie  wolf 
Hunts  in  their  meadows,  and  his  fresh-dug  den 
Yawns  by  my  path.  The  gopher  mines  the 
ground 

Where  stood  their  swarming  cities.  All  is  gone — 
All — save  the  piles  of  earth  that  hold  their 
bones — 

The  platforms  where  they  worshipped  unknown 
gods — 

The  barriers  which  they  builded  from  the  soil 


52 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


To  keep  the  foe  at  bay — till  o'er  the  walls 
The  wild  beleaguerers  broke,  and,  one  by  one, 
The  strongholds  of  the  plain  were  forced  and 
heaped 

With  corpses.    The  brown  vultures  of  the  wood 
Flocked  to  those  vast  uncovered  sepulchres, 
And  sat,  unscared  and  silent,  at  their  feast. 
Haply  some  solitary  fugitive, 
Lurking  in  marsh  and  forest,  till  the  sense 
Of  desolation  and  of  fear  became 
Bitterer  than  death,  yielded  himself  to  die. 
Man's  better  nature  .triumphed.    Kindly  words 
Welcomed  and  soothed  him  ;   the  rude  con- 
querors 

Seated  the  captive  with  their  chiefs  ;  he  chose 
A  bride  among  their  maidens,  and  at  length 
Seemed  to  forget, — yet  ne'er  forgot, — the  wife 
Of  his  first  love,  and  her  sweet  little  ones 
Butchered  amid  their  shrieks,  with  all  his  race. 

Thus  change  the  forms  of  being.    Thus  arise 
Races  of  living  things;  glorious  in  strength, 
And  perish,  as  the  quickening  breath  of  God 
Fills  them,  or  is  withdrawn.    The  red  man  too — 
Has  left  the  blooming  wilds  he  ranged  so  long, 
And,  nearer  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  sought 
A  wider  hunting-ground.    The  beaver  builds 
No  longer  by  these  streams,  but  far  away, 
On  waters  whose  blue  surface  ne'er  gave  back 
The  white  man's  face — among  Missouri's  springs, 
And  pools  whose  issues  swell  the  Oregan, 


THE  PRAIRIES. 


53 


He  rears  his  little  Venice.    In  these  plains 
The  bison  feeds  no  more.    Twice  twenty  leagues 
Beyond  remotest  smoke  of  hunter's  camp, 
Roams  the  majestic  brute,  in  herds  that  shake 
The  earth  with  thundering  steps — yet  here  I  meet 
His  ancient  footprints  stamped  beside  the  pool. 

Still  this  great  solitude  is  quick  with  life. 
Myriads  of  insects,  gaudy  as  the  flowers 
They  flutter  over,  gentle  quadrupeds, 
And  birds,  that  scarce  have  learned  the  fear  of 
man, 

Are  here,  and  sliding  reptiles  of  the  ground, 
Startlingly  beautiful.    The  graceful  deer 
Bounds  to  the  wood  at  my  approach.    The  bee, 
A  more  adventurous  colonist  than  man, 
With  whom  he  came  across  the  eastern  deep, 
Fills  the  savannas  with  his  murmurings, 
And  hides  his  sweets,  as  in  the  golden  age, 
Within  the  hollow  oak.    I  listen  long 
To  his  domestic  hum,  and  think  I  hear 
The  sound  of  that  advancing  multitude 
Which  soon  shall  fill  these  deserts.    From  the 
ground 

Comes  up  the  laugh  of  children,  the  soft  voice 
Of  maidens,  and  the  sweet  and  solemn  hymn 
Of  Sabbath  worshippers.    The  low  of  herds 
Blends  with  the  rustling  of  the  heavy  grain 
Over  the  dark-brown  furrows.    All  at  once 
A  fresher  wind  sweeps  by,  and  breaks  my  dream, 
And  I  am  in  the  wilderness  alone. 


EARTH. 


A  MIDNIGHT  black  with  clouds  is  in  the  sky  ; 
I  seem  to  feel,  upon  my  limbs,  the  weight 
Of  its  vast  brooding  shadow.    All  in  vain 
Turns  the  tired  eye  in  search  of  form  ;  no  star 
Pierces  the  pitchy  veil ;  no  ruddy  blaze, 
From  dwellings  lighted  by  the  cheerful  hearth, 
Tinges  the  flowering  summits  of  the  grass. 
No  sound  of  life  is  heard,  no  village  hum, 
Nor  measured  tramp  of  footstep  in  the  path, 
Nor  rush  of  wing,  while,  on  the  breast  of  Earth, 
I  lie  and  listen  to  her  mighty  voice  : 
A  voice  of  many  tones — sent  up  from  streams 
That  wander  through  the  gloom,  from  woods 
unseen, 

Swayed  by  the  sweeping  of  the  tides  of  air, 
From  rocky  chasms  where  darkness  dwells  all 
day, 

And  hollows  of  the  great  invisible  hills, 

And  sands  that  edge  the  ocean,  stretching  far 

Into  the  night — a  melancholy  sound  ! 

Oh  Earth  !  dost  thou  too  sorrow  for  the  past 


EARTH. 


Like  man  thy  offspring  ?  Do  I  hear  thee  mourn 
Thy  childhood's  unreturning  hours,  thy  springs 
Gone  with  their  genial  airs  and  melodies, 
The  gentle  generations  of  thy  flowers, 
And  thy  majestic  groves  of  olden  time, 
Perished  with  all  their  dwellers  ?    Dost  thou 
wail 

For  that  fair  age  of  which  the  poets  tell, 
Ere  the  rude  winds  grew  keen  with  frost,  or  fire 
Fell  with  the  rains,  or  spouted  from  the  hills, 
To  blast  thy  greenness,  while  the  virgin  night 
Was  guiltless  and  salubrious  as  the  day  ? 
Or  haply  dost  thou  grieve  for  those  that  die — 
For  living  things  that  trod  awhile  thy  face, 
The  love  of  thee  and  heaven — and  now  they 
sleep 

Mixed  with  the  shapeless  dust  on  which  thy 
herds 

Trample  and  graze  ?    I  too  must  grieve  with 
thee, 

O'er  loved  ones  lost — their  graves  are  far  away 
Upon  thy  mountains,  yet,  while  I  recline, 
Alone,  in  darkness,  on  thy  naked  soil, 
The  mighty  nourisher  and  burial-place 
Of  man,  I  feel  that  I  embrace  their  dust. 

Ha  !  how  the  murmur  deepens  !    I  perceive 
And  tremble  at  its  dreadful  import.  Earth 
Uplifts  a  general  cry  for  guilt  and  wrong, 
And  Heaven  is  listening.  The  forgotten  graves 
Of  the  heart-broken  utter  forth  their  plaint. 


56 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


The  dust  of  her  who  loved  and  was  betrayed, 
And  him  who  died  neglected  in  his  age  ; 
The  sepulchres  of  those  who  for  mankind 
Labored,  and  earned  the  recompense  of  scorn; 
Ashes  of  martyrs  for  the  truth,  and  bones 
Of  those  who,  in  the  strife  for  liberty, 
Were  beaten  down,  their  corses  given  to  dogs, 
Their  names  to  infamy,  all  find  a  voice. 
The  nook  in  which  the  captive,  overtoiled, 
Lay  down  to  rest  at  last,  and  that  which  holds 
Childhood's  sweet  blossoms,  crushed  by  cruel 
hands, 

Send  up  a  plaintive  sound.    From  battle-fields, 
Where  heroes  madly  drave  and  dashed  their 
hosts 

Against  each  other,  rises  up  a  noise, 
As  if  the  armed  multitudes  of  dead 
Stirred  in  their  heavy  slumber.   Mournful  tones 
Come  from  the  green  abysses  of  the  sea — 
A  story  of  the  crimes  the  guilty  sought 
To  hide  beneath  its  waves.     The  glens,  the 
groves, 

Paths  in  the  thicket,  pools  of  running  brook, 
And  banks  and  depths  of  lake,  and  streets  and 
lanes 

Of  cities,  now  that  living  sounds  are  hushed, 
Murmur  of  guilty  force  and  treachery. 

Here,  where  I  rest,  the  vales  of  Italy 
Are  round  me,  populous  from  early  time, 
And  field  of  the  tremendous  warfare  waged 


EARTH. 


57 


'Twixt  good  and  evil.    Who,  alas,  shall  dare 
Interpret  to  man's  ear  the  mingled  voice 
From  all  her  ways  and  walls,  and  streets  and 
streams, 

And  hills  and  fruitful  fields  ?    Old  dungeons 
breathe 

Of  horrors  veiled  from  history  ;  the  stones 
Of  mouldering  amphitheatres,  where  flowed 
The  life-blood  of  the  warrior  slave,  cry  out. 
The  fanes  of  old  religions,  the  proud  piles 
Reared  with  the  spoil  of  empires,    yea,  the 
hearths 

Of  cities  dug  from  their  volcanic  graves, 
Report  of  human  suffering  and  shame 
And  folly.    Even  the  common  dust,  among 
The  springing  corn  and  vine-rows,  witnesses 
To  ages  of  oppression.    Ah,  I  hear 
A  murmur  of  confused  languages, 
The  utterance  of  nations  now  no  more, 
Driven  out  by  mightier,  as  the  days  of  heaven 
Chase  one  another  from  the  sky.    The  blood 
Of  freemen  shed  by  freemen,  till  strange  lords 
Came  in  the  hour  of  weakness,  and  made  fast 
The  yoke  that  yet  is  worn,  appeals  to  Heaven. 
What  then  shall  cleanse  thy  bosom,  gentle 
Earth, 

From  all  its  painful  memories  of  guilt  ? 
The  whelming  flood,  or.  the  renewing  fire, 
Or  the  slow  change  of  time  ?  that  so,  at  last, 
The  horrid  tale  of  perjury  and  strife, 


58 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Murder  and  spoil,  which  men  call  history, 
May  seem  a  fable,  like  the  inventions  told 
By  poets  of  the  gods  of  Greece.    Oh  thou 
Who  sittest  far  beyond  the  Atlantic  deep, 
Among  the  sources  of  thy  glorious  streams, 
My  native  Land  of  Groves  !  a  newer  page 
In  the  great  record  of  the  world  is  thine. 
Shall  it  be  fairer  ?    Fear,  and  friendly  Hope, 
And  Envy,  watch  the  issue,  while  the  lines, 
By  which  thou  shalt  be  judged,  are  written 
down. 


TO  THE  APENNINES. 


YOUR  peaks  are  beautiful,  ye  Apennines  ! 

In  the  soft  light  of  these  serenest  skies  ; 
From  the  broad  highland  region,  black  with 
pines, 

Fair  as  the  hills  of  Paradise  they  rise, 
Bathed  in  the  tint  Peruvian  slaves  behold 
In  rosy  flushes  on  the  virgin  gold. 

There,  rooted  to  the  aerial  shelves  that  wear 

The  glory  of  a  brighter  world,  might  spring 
Sweet  flowers  of  heaven  to  scent  the  unbreathed 
air, 

And  heaven's  fleet  messengers  might  rest  the 
wing, 

To  view  the  fair  earth  in  its  summer  sleep, 
Silent,  and  cradled  by  the  glimmering  deep. 

Below  you  lie  men's  sepulchres,  the  old 

Etrurian  tombs,  the  graves  of  yesterday  ; 
The  herd's  white  bones  lie  mixed  with  human 
mould — 

Yet  up  the  radiant  steeps  that  I  survey 


6o 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Death  never  climbed,  nor  life's  soft  breath,  with 
pain, 

Was  yielded  to  the  elements  again. 

Ages  of  war  have  filled  these  plains  with  fear  ; 

How  oft  the  hind  has  started  at  the  clash 
Of  spears,  and  yell  of  meeting  armies  here, 

Or  seen  the  lightning  of  the  battle  flash 
From  clouds,  that  rising   with  the  thunder's 
sound, 

Hung  like  an  earth-born  tempest  o'er  the  ground. 

Ah  me  !  what  armed  nations — Asian  horde, 
And   Libyan  host — the   Scythian   and  the 
Gaul, 

Have  swept  your  base  and  through  your  passes 
poured, 

Like  ocean-tides  uprising  at  the  call 
Of  tyrant  winds — against  your  rocky  side 
The  bloody  billows  dashed,  and  howled,  and 
died. 

How  crashed  the  towers  before  beleaguering 
foes, 

Sacked  cities  smoked  and  realms  were  rent 
in  twain  ; 

And  commonwealths  against  their  rivals  rose, 
Trode  out  their  lives  and  earned  the  curse  of 
Cain  ! 


TO  THE  APENNINES. 


61 


While  in  the  noiseless  air  and  light  that  flowed 
Round  your  far  brows,  eternal  Peace  abode. 

Here  pealed  the  impious  hymn,  and  altar  flames 
Rose  to  false  gods,  a  dream-begotten  throng, 

Jove,  Bacchus,  Pan,  and  earlier,  fouler  names  ; 
While,  as  the  unheeding  ages  passed  along, 

Ye,  from  your  station  in  the  middle  skies, 

Proclaimed  the  essential  Goodness,  strong  and 
wise. 

In  you  the  heart  that  sighs  for  freedom  seeks 

Her  image  ;  there  the  winds  no  barrier  know, 
Clouds  come  and  rest  and  leave  your  fairy 
peaks  ; 

While  even  the  immaterial  Mind,  below, 
And  Thought,  her  winged  offspring,  chained  by 
power, 

Pine  silently  for  the  redeeming  hour. 


THE  KNIGHT'S  EPITAPH. 


This  is  the  church  which  Pisa,  great  and  free, 
Reared  to  St.  Catharine.    How  the  time-stained 
walls, 

That  earthquakes  shook  not  from  their  poise, 
appear 

To  shiver  in  the  deep  and  voluble  tones 
Rolled  from  the  organ  !    Underneath  my  feet 
There  lies  the  lid  of  a  sepulchral  vault. 
The  image  of  an  armed  knight  is  graven 
Upon  it,  clad  in  perfect  panoply — 
Cuishes,  and  greaves,  and  cuirass,  with  barred 
helm, 

Gauntleted    hand,  and  sword,  and  blazoned 
shield. 

Around,  in  Gothic  characters,  worn  dim 
By  feet  of  worshippers,  are  traced  his  name, 
And  birth,  and  death,  and  words  of  eulogy. 
Why  should  I  pore  upon  them  ?  This  old  tomb, 
This  effigy,  the  strange  disused  form 
Of  this  inscription,  eloquently  show 


THE  KNIGHT'S  EPITAPH. 


63 


His  history.    Let  me  clothe  in  fitting  words 
The  thoughts    they  breathe,  and    frame  his 
epitaph. 

"  He  whose  forgotten  dust  for  centuries 
Has  lain  beneath  this  stone,  was  one  in  whom 
Adventure,  and  endurance,  and  emprise 
Exalted  the  mind's  faculties  and  strung 
The  body's  sinews.    Brave  he  was  in  fight, 
Courteous  in  banquet,  scornful  of  repose, 
And  bountiful,  and  cruel,  and  devout, 
And  quick  to  draw  the  sword  in  private  feud. 
He  pushed  his  quarrels  to  the  death,  yet  prayed 
The  saints  as  fervently  on  bended  knees 
As  ever  shaven  cenobite.    He  loved 
As  fiercely  as  he  fought.  He  would  have  borne 
The  maid  that  pleased  him  from  her  bower  by 
night, 

To  his  hill-castle,  as  the  eagle  bears 

His  victim  from  the  fold,  and  rolled  the  rocks 

On  his  pursuers.     He  aspired  to  see 

His  native  Pisa  queen  and  arbitress 

Of  cities  ;  earnestly  for  her  he  raised 

His  voice  in  council,  and  affronted  death 

In  battle-field,  and  climbed  the  galley's  deck, 

And  brought  the  captured  flag  of  Genoa  back, 

Or  piled  upon  the  Arno's  crowded  quay 

The  glittering  spoils  of  the  tamed  Saracen. 

He  was  not  born  to  brook  the  stranger's  yoke, 

But  would  have  joined  the  exiles,  that  withdrew 

For  ever,  when  the  Florentine  broke  in 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


The  gates  of  Pisa,  and  bore  off  the  bolts 
For  trophies — but  he  died  before  that  day. 

"  He  lived,  the  impersonation  of  an  age 
That  never  shall  return.     His  soul  of  fire 
Was  kindled  by  the  breath  of  the  rude  time 
He  lived  in.    Now  a  gentler  race  succeeds, 
Shuddering  at  blood  ;  the  effeminate  cavalier, 
Turning  from  the  reproaches  of  the  past, 
And  from  the  hopeless  future,  gives  to  ease, 
And  love,  and  music,  his  inglorious  life." 


SEVENTY-SIX. 


What  heroes  from  the  woodland  sprung, 
When,  through  the  fresh  awakened  land, 

The  thrilling  cry  of  freedom  rung, 

And  to  the  work  of  warfare  strung 
The  yeoman's  iron  hand  ! 

Hills  flung  the  cry  to  hills  around, 

And  ocean-mart  replied  to  mart, 
And  streams,  whose  springs  were  yet  unfound, 
Pealed  far  away  the  startling  sound 

Into  the  forest's  heart. 


Then  marched  the  brave  from  rocky  steep, 

From  mountain  river  swift  and  cold ; 
The  borders  of  the  stormy  deep, 
The  vales  where  gathered  waters  sleep, 
Sent  up  the  strong  and  bold. 
5 


66 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


As  if  the  very  earth  again 

Grew  quick  with  God's  creating  breath, 
And,  from  the  sods  of  grove  and  glen, 
Rose  ranks  of  lion-hearted  men 

To  battle  to  the  death. 


The  wife,  whose  babe  first  smiled  that  day, 

The  fair  fond  bride  of  yestereve, 
And  aged  sire  and  matron  gray, 
Saw  the  loved  warriors  haste  away, 
And  deemed  it  sin  to  grieve. 

Already  had  the  strife  begun  ; 

Already  blood  on  Concord's  plain 
Along  the  springing  grass  had  run, 
And  blood  had  flowed  at  Lexington, 

Like  brooks  of  April  rain. 

That  death-stain  on  the  vernal  sward 
Hallowed  to  freedom  all  the  shore  ; 

In  fragments  fell  the  yoke  abhorred — 

The  footstep  of  a  foreign  lord 
Profaned  the  soil  no  more. 


THE  LIVING  LOST. 


Matron  !  the  children  of  whose  love, 

Each  to  his  grave,  in  youth  have  passed, 
And  now  the  mould  is  heaped  above 

The  dearest  and  the  last ! 
Bride  !  who  dost  wrear  the  widow's  veil 
Before  the  wedding  flowers  are  pale  ! 
Ye  deem  the  human  heart  endures 
No  deeper,  bitterer  grief  than  yours. 

Yet  there  are  pangs  of  keener  wo, 

Of  which  the  sufferers  never  speak, 
Nor  to  the  world's  cold  pity  show 
The  tears  that  scald  the  cheek, 
Wrung  from  their  eyelids  by  the  shame 
And  guilt  of  those  they  shrink  to  name, 
Whom  once  they  loved,  with  cheerful  will, 
And  love,  though  fallen  and  branded,  stilL 


68 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Weep,  ye  who  sorrow  for  the  dead, 

Thus  breaking  hearts  their  pain  relieve  ; 
And  graceful  are  the  tears  ye  shed, 

And  honored  ye  who  grieve. 
The  praise  of  those  who  sleep  in  earth, 
The  pleasant  memory  of  their  worth, 
The  hope  to  meet  when  life  is  past, 
Shall  heal  the  tortured  mind  at  last. 


But  ye,  who  for  the  living  lost 

That  agony  in  secret  bear, 
Who  shall  with  soothing  words  accost 

The  strength  of  your  despair  ? 
Grief  for  your  sake  is  scorn  for  them 
Whom  ye  lament  and  all  conflemn  ; 
And  o'er  the  world  of  spirits  lies 
A  gloom  from  which  ye  turn  your  eyese 


THE  STRANGE  LADY. 


The  summer  morn  is  bright  and  fresh,  the  birds 

are  darting  by, 
As  if  they  loved  to  breast  the  breeze  that  sweeps 

the  cool  clear  sky  ; 
Young  Albert,  in  the  forest's  edge,  has  heard  a 

rustling  sound, 
An  arrow  slightly  strikes  his  hand  and  falls  upon 

the  ground. 

A  lovely  woman  from  the  wood  comes  sudden- 
ly in  sight ; 

Her  merry  eye  is  full  and  black,  her  cheek  is 

brown  and  bright  ; 
She  wears  a  tunic  of  the  blue,  her  belt  with 

beads  is  strung, 
And  yet  she  speaks  in  gentle  tones,  and  in  the 

English  tongue. 

"  It  was  an  idle  bolt  I  sent,  against  the  villain 
crow ; 

Fair  sir,  I  fear  it  harmed  thy  hand  ;  beshrew 
my  erring  bow  !  " 


7o 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


"  Ah  !  would  that  bolt  had  not  been  spent,  then, 

lady,  might  I  wear 
A  lasting  token  on  my  hand  of  one  so  passing 

fair  !  " 

"  Thou  art  a  flatterer  like  the  rest,  but  wouldst 

thou  take  with  me 
A  day  of  hunting  in  the  wilds,  beneath  the 

greenwood  tree, 
I  know  where  most  the  pheasants  feed,  and 

where  the  red-deer  herd, 
And  thou  shouldst  chase  the  nobler  game,  and 

I  bring  down  the  bird." 

Now  Albert  in  her  quiver  lays  the  arrow  in  its 
place, 

And  wonders  as  he  gazes  on  the  beauty  of  her 
face  : 

"  Those  hunting-grounds  are  far  away,  and,  lady, 

'twere  not  meet 
That  night,  amid  the  wilderness,  should  overtake 

thy  feet.,, 

"  Heed  not  the  night,  a  summer  lodge  amid  the 

wild  is  mine, 
'Tis  shadowed  by  the  tulip-tree,  'tis  mantled  by 

the  vine  ; 

The  wild  plum  sheds  its  yellow  fruit  from  fra- 
grant thickets  nigh, 

And  flowery  prairies  from  the  door  stretch  till 
they  meet  the  sky. 


THE  STRANGE  LADY.  71 

"  There  in  the  boughs  that  hide  the  roof  the 

mock-bird  sits  and  sings, 
And  there  the  hang-bird's  brood  within  its  little 

hammock  swings  ; 
A  pebbly  brook,  where  rustling  winds  among 

the  hopples  sweep, 
Shall  lull  thee  till  the  morning  sun  looks  in  upon 

thy  sleep." 

Away,  into  the  forest  depths  by  pleasant  paths 
they  go, 

He  with  his  rifle  on  his  arm,  the  lady  with  her 
bow, 

Where  cornels  arch  their  cool  dark  boughs  o'er 

beds  of  wintergreen, 
And  never  at  his  father's  door  again  was  Albert 

seen. 

That  night  upon  the  woods  came  down  a  furious 
hurricane, 

With  howl  of  winds  and  roar  of  streams  and 

beating  of  the  rain  ; 
The  mighty  thunder  broke  and  drowned  the 

noises  in  its  crash  ; 
The  old  trees  seemed  to  fight  like  fiends  beneath 

the  lightning-flash. 

Next  day,  within  a  mossy  glen,  mid  mouldering 

trunks  were  found 
The  fragments  of  a  human  form,  upon  the  bloody 

ground  ; 


72 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


White  bones  from  which  the  flesh  was  torn,  and 

locks  of  glossy  hair  ; 
They  laid  them  in  the  place  of  graves,  yet  wist 

not  whose  they  were. 

And  whether  famished  evening  wolves  had  man- 
gled Albert  so, 

Or  that  strange  dame  so  gay  and  fair  were  some 
mysterious  foe, 

Or  whether  to  that  forest  lodge,  beyond  the 
mountains  blue, 

He  went  to  dwell  with  her,  the  friends  who 
mourned  him  never  knew. 


THE  HUNTER'S  VISION. 


UPON  a  rock  that,  high  and  sheer, 
Rose  from  the  mountain's  breast, 

A  weary  hunter  of  the  deer 
Had  sat  him  down  to  rest, 

And  bared,  to  the  soft  summer  air, 

His  hot  red  brow  and  sweaty  hair. 

All  dim  in  haze  the  mountains  lay, 
With  dimmer  vales  between  ; 

And  rivers  glimmered  on  their  way, 
By  forests,  faintly  seen  ; 

While  ever  rose  a  murmuring  sound, 

From  brooks  below  and  bees  around. 

He  listened,  till  he  seemed  to  hear 

A  strain,  so  soft  and  low, 
That  whether  in  the  mind  or  ear 

The  listener  scarce  might  know. 
With  such  a  tone,  so  sweet  and  mild, 
The  watching  mother  lulls  her  child. 


74 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Thou  weary  huntsman,  thus  it  said, 

Thou  faint  with  toil  and  heat, 
The  pleasant  land  of  rest  is  spread 

Before  thy  very  feet, 
And  those  whom  thou  wouldst  gladly  see 
Are  waiting  there  to  welcome  thee. 

He  looked,  and  'twixt  the  earth  and  sky, 

Amid  the  noontide  haze, 
A  shadowy  region  met  his  eye, 

And  grew  beneath  his  gaze, 
As  if  the  vapors  of  the  air 
Had  gathered  into  shapes  so  fair. 

Groves  freshened  as  he  looked,  and  flowers 
Showed  bright  on  rocky  bank, 

And  fountains  welled  beneath  the  bowers, 
Where  deer  and  pheasant  drank. 

He  saw  the  glittering  streams,  he  heard 

The  rustling  bough  and  twittering  bird. 

And  friends — the  dead — in  boyhood  dear, 

There  lived  and  walked  again, 
And  there  was  one  who  many  a  year 

Within  her  grave  had  lain, 
A  fair  young  girl,  the  hamlet's  pride — 
His  heart  was  breaking  when  she  died : 


THE  HUNTER'S  VISION. 


75 


Bounding,  as  was  her  wont,  she  came 
Right  toward  his  resting-place, 

And  stretched  her  hand  and  called  his  name 
With  that  sweet  smiling  face. 

Forward,  with  fixed  and  eager  eyes, 

The  hunter  leaned  in  act  to  rise  : 

Forward  he  leaned,  and  headlong  down 
Plunged  from  that  craggy  wall, 

He  saw  the  rocks,  steep,  stern,  and  brown, 
An  instant  in  his  fall  ; 

A  frightful  instant — and  no  more, 

The  dream  and  life  at  once  were  o'er. 


CATTERSKILL  FALLS. 


-  MlDST  greens  and  shades  the  Catterskill  leaps, 
From  cliffs  where  the  wood -flower  clings  ; 
All  summer  he  moistens  his  verdant  steeps 
With  the  sweet  light  spray  of  the  mountain 
springs  ; 

And  he  shakes  the  woods  on  the  mountainside, 
When  they  drip  with  the  rains  of  autumn  tide. 

But  when,  in  the  forest  bare  and  old, 

The  blast  of  December  calls, 
He  builds,  in  the  starlight  clear  and  cold, 

A  palace  of  ice  where  his  torrent  falls, 
With  turret,  and  arch,  and  fretwork  fair, 
And  pillars  blue  as  the  summer  air. 

For  whom  are  those  glorious  chambers  wrought, 

In  the  cold  and  cloudless  night  ? 
Is  their  neither  spirit  nor  motion  of  thought 

In  forms  so  lovely  and  hues  so  bright  ? 
Hear  what  the  gray-haired  woodmen  tell 
Of  this  wild  stream  and  its  rocky  dell. 


CATTERSKILL  FALLS. 


77 


'Twas  hither  a  youth  of  dreamy  mood, 

A  hundred  winters  ago, 
Had  wandered  over  the  mighty  wood, 

When  the  panther's  track  was  fresh  on  the 
snow, 

And  keen  were  the  winds  that  came  to  stir 
The  long  dark  boughs  of  the  hemlock  fir. 

Too  gentle  of  mien  he  seemed  and  fair, 
For  a  child  of  those  rugged  steeps  ; 

His  home  lay  low  in  the  valley  where 
The  kingly  Hudson  rolls  to  the  deeps  ; 

But  he  wore  the  hunter's  frock  that  day, 

And  a  slender  gun  on  his  shoulder  lay. 

And  here  he  paused,  and  against  the  trunk 

Of  a  tall  gray  linden  leant, 
When  the  broad  clear  orb  of  the  sun  had  sunk 

From  his  path  in  the  frosty  firmament, 
And  over  the  round  dark  edge  of  the  hill 
A  cold  green  light  was  quivering  still. 

And  the  crescent  moon,  high  over  the  green, 

From  a  sky  of  crimson  shone. 
On  that  icy  palace,  whose  towers  were  seen 

To  sparkle  as  if  with  stars  of  their  own  ; 
While  the  water  fell,  with  a  hollow  sound, 
'Twixt  the  glistening  pillars  ranged  around. 


73 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Is  that  a  being  of  life,  that  moves 
Where  the  crystal  battlements  rise  ? 

A  maiden,  watching  the  moon  she  loves, 
At  the  twilight  hour,  with  pensive  eyes  ? 

Was  that  a  garment  which  seemed  to  gleam 

Betwixt  the  eye  and  the  falling  stream  ? 

*Tis  only  the  torrent,  tumbling  o'er, 
In  the  midst  of  those  glassy  walls, 

Gushing,  and  plunging,  and  beating  the  floor 
Of  the  rocky  basin  in  which  it  falls. 

Tis  only  the  torrent — but  why  that  start  ? 

Why  gazes  the  youth  with  a  throbbing  heart  ? 

He  thinks  no  more  of  his  home  afar, 

Where  his  sire  and  sister  wait. 
He  heeds  no  longer  how  star  after  star 

Looks  forth  on  the  night,  as  the  hour  grows 
late. 

He  heeds  not  the  snow-wreaths,  lifted  and  cast, 
From  a  thousand  boughs,  by  the  rising  blast. 

His  thoughts  are  alone  of  those  who  dwell 

In  the  halls  of  frost  and  snow, 
Who  pass  where  the  crystal  domes  upswell 

From  the  alabaster  floors  below, 
Where  the  frost-trees  bourgeon  with  leaf  and 
spray, 

And  frost-gems  scatter  a  silvery  day. 


CATTERSKILL  FALLS, 


79 


"And   oh  that   those   glorious  haunts  were 
mine  !  " 

He  speaks,  and  throughout  the  glen 
Thin  shadows  swim  in  the  faint  moonshine, 

And  take  a  ghastly  likeness  of  men, 
As  if  the  slain  by  the  wintry  storms 
Came  forth  to  the  air  in  their  earthly  forms. 

There  pass  the  chasers  of  seal  and  whale, 
With  their  weapons  quaint  and  grim, 

And  bands  of  warriors  in  glimmering  mail, 
And  herdsmen  and  hunters  huge  of  limb. 

There  are  naked  arms,  with  bow  and  spear, 

And  furry  gauntlets  the  carbine  rear. 

There  are  mothers — and  oh  how  sadly  their 
eyes 

On  their  children's  white  brows  rest ; 
There  are  youthful  lovers — the  maiden  lies 

In  a  seeming  sleep,  on  the  chosen  breast ; 
There  are  fair  wan  women  with  moonstruck  air, 
The  snow  stars  flecking  their  long  loose  hair. 

They  eye  him  not  as  they  pass  along, 

But  his  hair  stands  up  with  dread, 
When  he  feels  that  he  moves  with  that  phantom 
throng, 

Till  those  icy  turrets  are  over  his  head, 
And  the  torrent's  roar  as  they  enter  seems 
Like  a  drowsy  murmur  heard  in  dreams. 


So 


BRYANT'S  POEMS, 


The  glittering  threshold  is  scarcely  passed, 
When  there  gathers  and  wraps  him  round 

A  thick  white  twilight,  sullen  and  vast, 
In  which  there  is  neither  form  nor  sound ; 

The  phantoms,  the  glory,  vanish  all, 

With  the  dyhig  voice  of  the  waterfall. 

Slow  passes  the  darkness  of  that  trance, 

And  the  youth  now  faintly  sees 
Huge  shadows  and  gushes  of  light  that  dance 

On  a  rugged  ceiling  of  unhewn  trees, 
And  walls  where  the  skins  of  beasts  are  hung, 
And  rifles  glitter  on  antlers  strung. 

On  a  couch  of  shaggy  skins  he  lies  ; 

As  he  strives  to  raise  his  head, 
Hard-featured  woodmen,  with  kindly  eyes, 

Come  round  him  and  smooth  his  furry  bed, 
And  bid  him  rest,  for  the  evening  star  ' 
Is  scarcely  set,  and  the  day  is  far. 

They  had  found  at  eve  the  dreaming  one 

By  the  base  of  that  icy  steep, 
When  over  his  stiffening  limbs  begun 

The  deadly  slumber  of  frost  to  creep, 
And  they  cherished  the  pale  and  breathless 
form, 

Till  the  stagnant  blood  ran  free  and  warm. 


THE  HUNTER  OF  THE  PRAIRIES. 


Ay,  this  is  freedom  ! — these  pure  skies 

Were  never  stained  with  village  smoke  : 
The  fragrant  wind,  that  through  them  flies, 

Is  breathed  from  wastes  by  plough  unbroke, 
Here,  with  my  rifle  and  my  steed, 

And  her  who  left  the  world  for  me, 
I  plant  me,  where  the  red  deer  feed 

In  the  green  desert — and  am  free. 

For  here  the  fair  savannas  know 

No  barriers  in  the  bloomy  grass ; 
Wherever  breeze  of  heaven  may  blow, 

Or  beam  of  heaven  may  glance,  I  pass. 
In  pastures,  measureless  as  air, 

The  bison  is  my  noble  game  ; 
The  bounding  elk,  whose  antlers  tear 

The  branches,  falls  before  my  aim. 


Mine  are  the  river-fowl  that  scream 
From  the  long  stripe  of  waving  sedge  ; 
6 


82 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


The  bear,  that  marks  my  weapon's  gleam, 
Hides  vainly  in  the  forest's  edge  ; 

In  vain  the  she-wolf  stands  at  bay  ; 
The  brinded  catamount,  that  lies 

High  in  the  boughs  to  watch  his  prey, 
Even  in  the  act  of  springing,  dies. 

With  what  free  growth  the  elm  and  plane 

Fling  their  huge  arms  across  my  way, 
Gray,  old,  and  cumbered  with  a  train 

Of  vines,  as  huge,  and  old,  and  gray  ! 
Free  stray  the  lucid  streams,  and  find 

No  taint  in  these  fresh  lawns  and  shades  ; 
Free  spring  the  flowers  that  scent  the  wind 

Where  never  scythe  has  swept  the  glades. 

Alone  the  Fire,  when  frostwinds  sere 

The  heavy  herbage  of  the  ground, 
Gathers  his  annual  harvest  here, 

With  roaring  like  the  battle's  sound, 
And  hurrying  flames  that  sweep  the  plain, 

And  smoke-streams  gushing  up  the  sky : 
I  meet  the  flames  with  flames  again, 

And  at  my  door  they  cower  and  die. 

Here,  from  dim  woods,  the  aged  past 
Speaks  solemnly  ;  and  I  behold 

The  boundless  future  in  the  vast 
And  lonely  river,  seaward  rolled. 


THE  HUNTER  OF  THE  PRAIRIES.  83 


Who  feeds  its  founts  with  rain  and  dew  ? 

Who  moves,  I  ask,  its  gliding  mass, 
And  trains  the  bordering  vines,  whose  blue 

Bright  clusters  tempt  me  as  I  pass  ? 

Broad  are  these  streams — my  steed  obeys, 

Plunges,  and  bears  me  through  the  tide. 
Wide  are  these  woods — I  thread  the  maze 

Of  giant  stems,  nor  ask  a  guide. 
I  hunt,  till  day's  last  glimmer  dies 

O'er  woody  vale  and  grassy  height ; 
And  kind  the  voice  and  glad  the  eyes, 

That  welcome  my  return  at  night. 


THE  DAMSEL  OF  PERU. 


WHERE  olive  leaves  were  twinkling  in  every 

wind  that  blew, 
There  sat  beneath  the  pleasant  shade  a  damsel 

of  Peru. 

Betwixt  the  slender  boughs,  as  they  opened  to 
the  air, 

Came  glimpses  of  her  ivory  neck  and  of  her 

glossy  hair  ; 
And  sweetly  rang  her  silver  voice,  within  that 

shady  nook, 
As  from  the  shrubby  glen  is  heard  the  sound  of 

hidden  brook. 

'Tis  a  song  of  love  and  valor,  in  the  noble 

Spanish  tongue, 
That  once  upon  the  sunny  plains  of  old  Castile 

was  sung  ; 

When,  from  their  mountain  holds,  on  the  Moor- 
ish rout  below, 

Had  rushed  the  Christians  like  a  flood,  and 
swept  away  the  foe. 


THE  DAMSEL  OF  PERU.  85 

Awhile  that  melody  is  still,  and  then  breaks 
forth  anew 

A  wilder  rhyme,  a  livelier  note,  of  freedom  and 
Peru. 

A  white  hand  parts  the  branches,  a  lovely  face 
looks  forth, 

And  bright  dark  eyes  gaze  steadfastly  and  sadly 
toward  the  north. 

Thou  look'st  in  vain,  sweet  maiden,  the  sharp- 
est sight  would  fail, 

To  spy  a  sign  of  human  life  abroad  in  all  the 
vale  ; 

For  the  noon  is  coming  on,  and  the  sunbeams 

fiercely  beat, 
And  the  silent  hills  and  forest-tops  seem  reeling 

in  the  heat. 

That  white  hand  is  withdrawn,  that  fair  sad  face 
is  gone, 

But  the  music  of  that  silver  voice  is  flowing 
sweetly  on, 

Not  as  of  late,  in  cheerful  tones,  but  mournfully 
and  low, — 

A  ballad  of  a  tender  maid  heart-broken  long 
ago, 

Of  him  who  died  in  battle,  the  youthful  and  the 
brave, 

And  her  who  died  of  sorrow,  upon  his  early 
grave. 


86  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

But  see,  along  that  mountain's  slope,  a  fiery- 
horseman  ride  ; 

Mark  his  torn  plume,  his  tarnished  belt,  the 
sabre  at  his  side. 

His  spurs  are  buried  rowel  deep,  he  rides  with 
loosened  rein, 

There's  blood  upon  his  charger's  flank  and  foam 
upon  the  mane, 

He  speeds  him  toward  the  olive-grove,  along 
that  shaded  hill, — 

God  shield  the  helpless  maiden  there,  if  he 
should  mean  her  ill  ! 

And  suddenly  that  song  has  ceased,  and  sud- 
denly I  hear 

A  shriek  sent  up  amid  the  shade,  a  shriek — but 
not  of  fear. 

For  tender  accents  follow,  and  tenderer  pauses 
speak 

The  overflow  of  gladness,  when  words  are  all 
too  weak  : 

"  I  lay  my  good  sword  at  thy  feet,  for  now  Peru 
is  free, 

And  I  am  come  to  dwell  beside  the  olive-grove 
with  thee." 


A  SONG  OF  PITCAIRN'S  ISLAND. 


Come,  take  our  boy,  and  we  will  go 

Before  our  cabin  door  ; 
The  winds  shall  bring  us,  as  they  blow, 

The  murmurs  of  the  shore  ; 
And  we  will  kiss  his  young  blue  eyes, 
And  I  will  sing  him,  as  he  lies, 

Songs  that  were  made  of  yore  : 
I'll  sing,  in  his  delighted  ear, 
The  island  lays  thou  lov'st  to  hear. 

And  thou,  while  stammering  I  repeat, 

Thy  country's  tongue  shalt  teach  ; 
'Tis  not  so  soft,  but  far  more  sweet, 

Than  my  own  native  speech  : 
For  thou  no  other  tongue  didst  know, 
When,  scarcely  twenty  moons  ago, 

Upon  Tahete's  beach, 
Thou  cam'st  to  woo  me  to  be  thine, 
With  many  a  speaking  look  and  sign. 


88 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


I  knew  thy  meaning — thou  didst  praise 

My  eyes,  my  locks  of  jet  ; 
Ah  !  well  for  me  they  won  thy  gaze, — 

But  thine  were  fairer  yet ! 
I'm  glad  to  see  my  infant  wear 
Thy  soft  blue  eyes  and  sunny  hair, 

And  when  my  sight  is  met 
By  his  white  brow  and  blooming  cheek, 
I  feel  a  joy  I  cannot  speak. 

Come  talk  of  Europe's  maids  with  me, 

Whose  necks  and  cheeks,  they  tell, 
Outshine  the  beauty  of  the  sea, 

White  foam  and  crimson  shell. 
I'll  shape  like  theirs  my  simple  dress, 
And  bind  like  them  each  jetty  tress, 

A  sight  to  please  thee  well : 
And  for  my  dusky  brow  will  braid 
A  bonnet  like  an  English  maid. 

Come,  for  the  soft  low  sunlight  calls, 

We  lose  the  pleasant  hours  ; 
'Tis  lovelier  than  these  cottage  walls, — 

That  seat  among  the  flowers. 
And  I  will  learn  of  thee  a  prayer, 
To  Him,  who  gave  a  home  so  fair. 

A  lot  so  blessed  as  ours — 
The  God  who  made,  for  thee  and  me, 
This  sweet  lone  isle  amid  the  sea. 


RIZPAH. 


And  he  delivered  them  into  the  hands  of  the  Gibeonites,  and 
they  hanged  them  in  the  hill  before  the  Lord  ;  and  they  fell  all 
seven  together,  and  were  put  to  death  in  the  days  of  the  har- 
vest, in  the  first  days,  in  the  beginning  of  barley-harvest. 

And  Rizpah,  the  daughter  of  Aiah,  took  sackcloth,  and  spread 
it  for  her  upon  the  rock,  from  the  beginning  of  harvest  until  the 
water  dropped  upon  them  out  of  heaven,  and  suffered  neither 
the  birds  of  the  air  to  rest  upon  them  by  day,  nor  the  beasts  of 
the  field  by  night.  — 2  Samuel  xxi.  10. 


HEAR  what  the  desolate  Rizpah  said, 
As  on  Gibeah's  rocks  she  watched  the  dead. 
The  sons  of  Michal  before  her  lay, 
And  her  own  fair  children  dearer  than  they  : 
By  a  death  of  shame  they  all  had  died, 
And  were  stretched  on  the  bare  rock,  side  by 
side. 

And  Rizpah,  once  the  loveliest  of  all 
That  bloomed  and  smiled  in  the  court  of  Saul, 
All  wasted  with  watching  and  famine  now, 
And  scorched  by  the  sun  her  haggard  brow, 


9° 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Sat,  mournfully  guarding  their  corpses  there, 
And  murmured  a  strange  and  solemn  air ; 
The  low,  heart-broken,  and  wailing  strain 
Of  a  mother  that  mourns  her  children  slain. 

I  have  made  the  crags  my  home,  and  spread 
On  their  desert  backs  my  sackcloth  bed  ; 
I  have  eaten  the  bitter  herb  of  the  rocks, 
And  drunk  the  midnight  dew  in  my  locks  ; 
I  have  wept  till  I  could  not  weep,  and  the  pain 
Of  my  burning  eyeballs  went  to  my  brain. 
Seven  blackened  corpses  before  me  lie, 
In  the  blaze  of  the  sun  and  the  winds  of  the  sky 
I  have  watched  them  through  the  burning  day, 
And  driven  the  vulture  and  raven  away ; 
And  the  cormorant  wheeled  in  circles  round, 
Yet  feared  to  alight  on  the  guarded  ground. 
And,  when  the  shadows  of  twilight  came, 
I  have  seen  the  hyena's  eyes  of  flame, 
And  heard  at  my  side  his  stealthy  tread, 
But  aye  at  my  shout  the  savage  fled  : 
And  I  threw  the  lighted  brand,  to  fright 
The  jackal  and  wolf  that  yelled  in  the  night. 

Ye  were  foully  murdered,  my  hapless  sons, 
By  the  hands  of  wicked  and  cruel  ones  ; 
Ye  fell,  in  your  fresh  and  blooming  prime, 
All  innocent,  for  your  father's  crime. 
He  sinned — but  he  paid  the  price  of  his  guilt 
When  his  blood  by  a  nameless  hand  was  spilt ; 


RIZPAH, 


9i 


When  he  strove  with  the  heathen  host  in  vain, 
And  fell  with  the  flower  of  his  people  slain, 
And  the  sceptre  his  children's  hands  should  sway 
From  his  injured  lineage  passed  away. 

But  I  hoped  that  the  cottage  roof  would  be 
A  safe  retreat  for  my  sons  and  me  ; 
And  that  while  they  ripened  to  manhood  fast, 
They  should  wean  my  thoughts  from  the  woes 
of  the  past. 

And  my  bosom  swelled  with  a  mother's  pride, 
As  they  stood  in  their  beauty  and  strength  by 
my  side, 

Tall  like  their  sire,-  with  the  princely  grace 
Of  his  stately  form,  and  the  bloom  of  his  face. 

Oh,  what  an  hour  for  a  mother's  heart, 
When  the  pitiless  ruffians  tore  us  apart  ! 
When  I  clasped  their  knees  and  wept  and  prayed, 
And  struggled  and  shrieked  to  Heaven  for  aid, 
And  clung  to  my  sons  with  desperate  strength, 
Till  the  murderers  loosed  my  hold  at  length, 
And  bore  me  breathless  and  faint  aside, 
In  their  iron  arms,  while  my  children  died. 
They  died — and  the  mother  that  gave  them 
birth 

Is  forbid  to  cover  their  bones  with  earth. 

The  barley-harvest  was  nodding  white, 
When  my  children  died  on  the  rocky  height, 


92 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


And  the  reapers  were  singing  on  hill  and  plaint 

When  I  came  to  my  task  of  sorrow  and  pain. 

But  now  the  season  of  rain  is  nigh, 

The  sun  is  dim  in  the  thickening  sky, 

And  the  clouds  in  sullen  darkness  rest 

Where  he  hides  his  light  at  the  doors  of  the  west. 

I  hear  the  howl  of  the  wind  that  brings 

The  long  drear  storm  on  its  heavy  wings ; 

But  the  howling  wind,  and  the  driving  rain 

Will  beat  on  my  houseless  head  in  vain  : 

I  shall  stay,  from  my  murdered  sons  to  scare 

The  beasts  of  the  desert,  and  fowls  of  air. 


THE  INDIAN  GIRL'S  LAMENT. 


An  Indian  girl  was  sitting  where 
Her  lover,  slain  in  battle,  slept ; 

Her  maiden  veil,  her  own  black  hair, 
Came  down  o'er  eyes  that  wept ; 

And  wildly,  in  her  woodland  tongue, 

This  sad  and  simple  lay  she  sung  : 

IVe  pulled  away  the  shrubs  that  grew 
Too  close  above  thy  sleeping  head, 

And  broke  the  forest  boughs  that  threw 
Their  shadows  o'er  thy  bed, 

That  shining  from  the  sweet  southwest 

The  sunbeams  might  rejoice  thy  rest. 

It  was  a  weary,  weary  road 

That  led  thee  to  the  pleasant  coast, 
Where  thou,  in  his  serene  abode, 

Hast  met  thy  father's  ghost ; 
Where  everlasting  autumn  lies 
On  yellow  woods  and  sunny  skies. 


94 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


'Twas  I  the  broidered  mocsen  made, 
That  shod  thee  for  that  distant  land  ; 

'Twas  I  thy  bow  and  arrows  laid 
Beside  thy  still  cold  hand  ; 

Thy  bow  in  many  a  battle  bent, 

Thy  arrows  never  vainly  sent. 

With  wampum  belts  I  crossed  thy  breast, 
And  wrapped  thee  in  the  bison's  hide, 

And  laid  the  food  that  pleased  thee  best, 
In  plenty,  by  thy  side, 

And  decked  thee  bravely,  as  became 

A  warrior  of  illustrious  name. 

Thou'rt  happy  now,  for  thou  hast  passed 
The  long  dark  journey  of  the  grave, 

And  in  the  land  of  light,  at  last, 
Hast  joined  the  good  and  brave  ; 

Amid  the  flushed  and  balmy  air, 

The  bravest  and  the  loveliest  there. 

Yet,  oft  to  thine  own  Indian  maid 

Even  there  thy  thoughts  will  earthward 
stray, — 

To  her  who  sits  where  thou  wert  laid, 

And  weeps  the  hours  away, 
Yet  almost  can  her  grief  forget, 
To  think  that  thou  dost  love  her  yet. 


THE  INDIAN  GIRL'S  LAMENT. 


And  thou,  by  one  of  those  still  lakes 

That  in  a  shining  cluster  lie, 
On  which  the  south  wind  scarcely  breaks 

The  image  of  the  sky, 
A  bower  for  thee  and  me  hast  made 
Beneath  the  many-colored  shade. 

And  thou  dost  wait  and  watch  to  meet 
My  spirit  sent  to  join  the  blessed, 

And,  wondering  what  detains  my  feet 
From  the  bright  land  of  rest, 

Dost  seem,  in  every  sound,  to  hear 

The  rustling  of  my  footsteps  near. 


THE  ARCTIC  LOVER. 


GONE  is  the  long,  long  winter  night, 

Look,  my  beloved  one  ! 
How  glorious,  through  his  depths  of  light, 

Rolls  the  majestic  sun. 
The  willows,  waked  from  winter's  death, 
Give  out  a  fragrance  like  thy  breath — 

The  summer  is  begun  ! 

Ay,  'tis  the  long  bright  summer  day  : 

Hark,  to  that  mighty  crash  ! 
The  loosened  ice-ridge  breaks  away — 

The  smitten  waters  flash. 
Seaward  the  glittering  mountain  rides, 
While,  down  its  green  translucent  sides, 

The  foamy  torrents  dash. 

See,  love,  my  boat  is  moored  for  thee, 

By  ocean's  weedy  floor — 
The  petrel  does  not  skim  the  sea 

More  swiftly  than  my  oar. 


THE  ARCTIC  LOVER. 


We'll  go  where,  on  the  rocky  isles, 
Her  eggs  the  screaming  sea-fowl  piles 
Beside  the  pebbly  shore. 

Or,  bide  thou  where  the  poppy  blows, 
With  wind-flowers  frail  and  fair, 

While  I,  upon  his  isle  of  snows, 
Seek  and  defy  the  bear. 

Fierce  though  he  be,  and  huge  of  frame, 

This  arm  his  savage  strength  shall  tame, 
And  drag  him  from  his  lair. 

When  crimson  sky  and  flamy  cloud 

Bespeak  the  summer  o'er, 
And  the  dead  valleys  wrear  a  shroud 

Of  snows  that  melt  no  more, 
I'll  build  of  ice  thy  winter  home, 
With  glistening  walls  and  glassy  dome, 

And  spread  with  skins  the  floor. 

The  white  fox  by  thy  couch  shall  play ; 

And,  from  the  frozen  skies, 
The  meteors  of  a  mimic  day 

Shall  flash  upon  thine  eyes. 
And  I — for  such  thy  vow — meanwhile 
Shall  hear  thy  voice  and  see  thy  smile, 

Till  that  long  midnight  flies. 
7 


THE  MASSACRE  AT  SCIO. 


WEEP  not  for  Scio's  children  slain  ; 

Their  blood,  by  Turkish  falchions  shed, 
Sends  not  its  cry  to  Heaven  in  vain 

For  vengeance  on  the  murderer's  head. 

Though  high  the  warm  red  torrent  ran 
Between  the  flames  that  lit  the  sky, 

Yet,  for  each  drop,  an  armed  man 
Shall  rise,  to  free  the  land,  or  die. 

And  for  each  corpse,  that  in  the  sea 
Was  thrown,  to  feast  the  scaly  herds, 

A  hundred  of  the  foe  shall  be 

A  banquet  for  the  mountain  birds. 

Stern  rites  and  sad,  shall  Greece  ordain 
To  keep  that  day,  along  her  shore, 

Till  the  last  link  of  slavery's  chain 
Is  shivered,  to  be  worn  no  more. 


VERSION  OF  A  FRAGMENT  OF  SIMON- 
IDES. 


THE  night  winds  howled — the  billows  dashed 

Against  the  tossing  chest ; 
And  Danae  to  her  broken  heart 

Her  slumbering  infant  pressed. 

My  little  child — in  tears  she  said — 

To  wake  and  weep  is  mine, 
But  thou  canst  sleep — thou  dost  not  know 

Thy  mother's  lot,  and  thine. 

The  moon  is  up,  the  moonbeams  smile — 

They  tremble  on  the  main  ; 
But  dark,  within  my  floating  cell, 

To  me  they  smile  in  vain. 

Thy  folded  mantle  wraps  thee  warm, 

Thy  clustering  locks  are  dry, 
Thou  dost  not  hear  the  shrieking  gust, 

Nor  breakers  booming  high. 


IOO 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


As  o'er  thy  sweet  unconscious  face 

A  mournful  watch  I  keep, 
I  think,  didst  thou  but  know  thy  fate, 

How  thou  wouldst  also  weep. 

Yet,  dear  one,  sleep,  and  sleep,  ye  winds 

That  vex  the  restless  brine — 
When  shall  these  eyes,  my  babe,  be  sealed 

As  peacefully  as  thine  ? 


THE  GREEK  PARTISAN. 


OUR  free  flag  is  dancing 

In  the  free  mountain  air, 
And  burnished  arms  are  glancing, 

And  warriors  gathering  there  ; 
And  fearless  is  the  little  train 

Whose  gallant  bosoms  shield  it  ; 
The  blood  that  warms  their  hearts  shall  stain 

That  banner,  ere  they  yield  it. 
— Each  dark  eye  is  fixed  on  earth, 

And  brief  each  solemn  greeting  ; 
There  is  no  look  nor  sound  of  mirth, 

Where  those  stern  men  are  meeting. 

They  go  to  the  slaughter, 

To  strike  the  sudden  blow, 
And  pour  on  earth,  like  water, 

The  best  blood  of  the  foe  ; 
To  rush  on  them  from  rock  and  height, 

And  clear  the  narrow  valley, 
Or  fire  their  camp  at  dead  of  night, 

And  fly  before  they  rally. 


102 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


— Chains  are  round  our  country  pressed, 
And  cowards  have  betrayed  her, 

And  we  must  make  her  bleeding  breast 
The  grave  of  the  invader. 

Not  till  from  her  fetters 

We  raise  up  Greece  again, 
And  write,  in  bloody  letters, 

That  tyranny  is  slain, — 
Oh,  not  till  then  the  smile  shall  steal 

Across  those  darkened  faces, 
Nor  one  of  all  those  warriors  feel 

His  children's  dear  embraces. 
— Reap  we  not  the  ripened  wheat, 

Till  yonder  hosts  are  flying, 
And  all  their  bravest,  at  our  feet, 

Like  autumn  sheaves  are  lying. 


ROMERO. 


When  freedom,  from  the  land  of  Spain, 

By  Spain's  degenerate  sons  was  driven, 
Who  gave  their  willing  limbs  again 

To  wear  the  chain  so  lately  riven  ; 
Romero  broke  the  sword  he  wore — 

Go,  faithful  brand,  the  warrior  said, 
Go,  undishonored,  never  more 

The  blood  of  man  shall  make  thee  red  ; 

I  grieve  for  that  already  shed  ; 
And  I  am  sick  at  heart  to  know, 
That  faithful  friend  and  noble  foe 
Have  only  bled  to  make  more  strong 
The  yoke  that  Spain  has  worn  so  long. 
Wear  it  who  will,  in  abject  fear — 

I  wear  it  not  who  have  been  free  ; 
The  perjured  Ferdinand  shall  hear 

No  oath  of  loyalty  from  me. 
Then,  hunted  by  the  hounds  of  power, 

Romero  chose  a  safe  retreat, 
Where  bleak  Nevada's  summits  tower 

Above  the  beauty  at  their  feet. 


io4 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


There  once,  when  on  his  cabin  lay 
The  crimson  light  of  setting  day, 
When  even  on  the  mountain's  breast 
The  chainless  winds  were  all  at  rest, 
And  he  could  hear  the  river's  flow 
From  the  calm  paradise  below  ; 
Warmed  with  his  former  fires  again, 
He  framed  this  rude  but  solemn  strain. 


Here  will  I  make  my  home — for  here  at  least 
I  see, 

Upon  this  wild  Sierra's  side,  the  steps  of  Lib- 
erty ; 

Where  the  locust  chirps  unscared  beneath  the 

unpruned  lime, 
And  the  merry  bee  doth  hide  from  man  the 

spoil  of  the  mountain  thyme  ; 
Where  the  pure  winds  come  and  go,  and  the 

wild  vine  gads  at  will, 
An  outcast  from  the  haunts  of  men,  she  dwells 

with  Nature  still. 


II. 

I  see  the  valleys,  Spain  !  where  thy  mighty 
rivers  run, 

And  the  hills  that  lift  thy  harvests  and  vineyards 
to  the  sun, 


ROMERO, 


And  the  flocks  that  drink  thy  brooks  and 
sprinkle  all  the  green, 

Where  lie  thy  plains,  with  sheep-walks  seamed, 
and  olive  shades  between  : 

I  see  thy  fig-trees  bask,  with  the  fair  pomegran- 
ate near, 

And  the  fragrance  of  thy  lemon-groves  can  al- 
most reach  me  here. 


Fair — fair — but  fallen    Spain  !    'tis  with  a 

swelling  heart, 
That  I  think  on  all  thoumight'st  have  been,  and 

look  at  what  thou  art  ; 
But  the  strife  is  over  now — and  all  the  good  and 

brave, 

That  would  have  raised  thee  up,  are  gone,  to 

exile  or  the  grave. 
Thy  fleeces  are  for  monks,  thy  grapes  for  the 

convent  feast, 
And  the  wealth  of  all  thy  harvest-fields  for  the 

pampered  lord  and  priest. 


IV. 

But  I  shall  see  the  day — it  will  come  before  I 
die — 

I  shall  see  it  in  my  silver  hairs,  and  with  an  age- 
dimmed  eye  ; — 


106  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

When  the  spirit  of  the  land  to  liberty  shall 
bound, 

As  yonder  fountain  leaps  away  from  the  dark- 
ness of  the  ground  ; 
And,  to  my  mountain  cell,  the  voices  of  the  free 
Shall  rise,  as  from  the  beaten  shore  the  thunders 
of  the  sea. 


MONUMENT  MOUNTAIN. 


THOU  who  wouldst  see  the  lovely  and  the  wild 
Mingled  in  harmony  on  Nature's  face, 
Ascend  our  rocky  mountains.    Let  thy  foot 
Fail  not  with  weariness,  for  on  their  tops 
The  beauty  and  the  majesty  of  earth, 
Spread  wide  beneath,  shall  make  thee  to  forget 
The  steep  and  toilsome  way.    There,  as  thou 
stand'st, 

The  haunts  of  men  below  thee,  and  around 
The  mountain  summits,  thy  expanding  heart 
Shall  feel  a  kindred  with  that  loftier  world 
To  which  thou  art  translated,  and  partake 
The  enlargement  of  thy  vision.    Thou  shalt  look 
Upon  the  green  and  rolling  forest  tops, 
And  down  into  the  secrets  of  the  glens, 
And  streams,  that  with  their  bordering  thickets 
strive 

To  hide  their  windings.    Thou  shalt  gaze,  at 
once, 

Here  on  white  villages,  and  tilth,  and  herds, 
And  swarming  roads,  and  there  on  solitudes 


io8 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


That  only  hear  the  torrent,  and  the  wind, 
And  eagle's  shriek.    There  is  a  precipice 
That  seems  a  fragment  of  some  mighty  wall, 
Built  by  the  hand  that  fashioned  the  old  world, 
To  separate  its  nations,  and  thrown  down 
When  the  flood  drowned  them.    To  the  north, 
a  path 

Conducts  you  up  the  narrow  battlement. 
Steep  is  the  western  side,  shaggy  and  wild 
With  mossy  trees,  and  pinnacles  of  flint, 
And  many  a  hanging  crag.    But,  to  the  east, 
Sheer  to  the  vale  go  down  the  bare  old  cliffs, 
Huge  pillars,  that  in  middle  heaven  upbear 
Their  weather-beaten  capitals,  here  dark 
With  the  thick  moss  of  centuries,  and  there 
Of  chalky  whiteness  where  the  thunderbolt 
Has  splintered  them.    It  is  a  fearful  thing 
To  stand  upon  the  beetling  verge,  and  see 
Where  storm  and  lightning,  from  that  huge  gray 
wall, 

Have  tumbled  down  vast  blocks,  and  at  the  base 
Dashed  them  in  fragments,  and  to  lay  thine  ear 
Over  the  dizzy  depth,  and  hear  the  sound 
Of  winds,  that  struggle  with  the  woods  below, 
Come  up  like  ocean  murmurs.    But  the  scene 
Is  lovely  round  ;  a  beautiful  river  there 
Wanders  amid  the  fresh  and  fertile  meads, 
The  paradise  he  made  unto  himself, 
Mining  the  soil  for  ages.    On  each  side 
The  fields  swell  upward  to  the  hills  ;  beyond, 


MONUMENT  MO  UN  TAIN. 


09 


Above  the  hills,  in  the  blue  distance,  rise 
The  mighty  columns  with  which  earth  props 
heaven. 

There  is  a  tale  about  these  gray  old  rocks, 
A  sad  tradition  of  unhappy  love, 
And  sorrows  borne  and  ended,  long  ago, 
When  over  these  fair  vales  the  savage  sought 
His  game  in  the  thick  woods.    There  was  a 
maid, 

The  fairest  of  the  Indian  maids,  bright-eyed, 
With  wealth  of  raven  tresses,  a  light  form, 
And  a  gay  heart.    About  her  cabin  door 
The  wide  old  woods  resounded  with  her  song 
And  fairy  laughter  all  the  summer  day. 
She  loved  her  cousin  ;  such  a  love  was  deemed, 
By  the  morality  of  those  stern  tribes, 
Incestuous,  and  she  struggled  hard  and  long 
Against  her  love,  and  reasoned  with  her  heart, 
As  simple  Indian  maiden  might.    In  vain. 
Then  her  eye  lost  its  lustre,  and  her  step 
Its  lightness,  and  the  gray  old  men  that  passed 
Her  dwelling,  wondered  that  they  heard  no 
more 

The  accustomed  song  and  laugh  of  her,  whose 
looks 

Were  like  the  cheerful  smile  of  Spring,  they  said, 
Upon  the  Winter  of  their  age.    She  went 
To  weep  where  no  eye  saw,  and  was  not  found 
When  all  the  merry  girls  were  met  to  dance, 
And  all  the  hunters  of  the  tribe  were  out ; 


I  TO 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Nor  when  they  gathered  from  the  rustling  husk 
The  shining  ear  ;  nor  when,  by  the  river's  side, 
They  pulled  the  grape   and  startled  the  wild 
shades 

With  sounds  of  mirth.    The  keen-eyed  Indian 
dames 

Would  whisper  to  each  other,  as  they  saw 
Her  wasting  form,  and  say,  the  girl  will  die. 

One  day  into  the  bosom  of  a  friend, 
A  playmate  of  her  young  and  innocent  years, 
She  poured    her  griefs.    Thou   know'st,  and 

thou  alone, 
She  said,  for  I  have  told  thee,  all  my  love, 
And  guilt,  and  sorrow.     I  am  sick  of  life. 
All  night  I  weep  in  darkness,  and  the  morn 
Glares  on  me,  as  upon  a  thing  accursed, 
That  has  no  business  on  the  earth.    I  hate 
The  pastimes  and  the  pleasant  toils  that  once 
I  loved  ;  the  cheerful  voices  of  my  friends 
Have  an  unnatural  horror  in  mine  ear. 
In  dreams  my  mother,  from  the  land  of  souls, 
Calls  me  and  chides  me.    All  that  look  on  me 
Do  seem  to  know  my  shame  ;  I  cannot  bear 
Their  eyes  ;  I  cannot  from  my  heart  root  out 
The  love  that  wrings  it  so,  and  I  must  die. 

It  was  a  summer  morning,  and  they  went 
To  this  old  precipice.    About  the  cliffs 
Lay  garlands,  ears  of  maize,  and  shaggy  skins 
Of  wolf  and  bear,  the  offerings  of  the  tribe 
Here  made  to  the  Great  Spirit,  for  they  deemed, 


MONUMENT  MOUNTAIN.  in 


Like  *vorsh*ppers  of  the  elder  time,  that  God 
Dotb  walk  on  the  high  places  and  affect 
The  cnrth-o'erlooking  mountains.    She  had  on 
The  ornaments  with  which  her  father  loved 
To  deck  tb-e  beauty  of  his  bright-eyed  girl, 
And  bade  her  wear  when  stranger  warriors 
came 

To  be  hJs  guests.    Here  the  friends  sat  them 
down, 

And  ?c\ng,  all  day,  old  songs  of  love  and  death, 
And  decked  the  poor  wan  victim's  hair  with 
flowers, 

And  prayed  that  safe  and  swift  might  be  her 
wray 

To  the  calm  world  of  sunshine,  where  no  grief 
Makes  the  heart  heavy  and  the  eyelids  red. 
Beautiful  lay  the  region  of  her  tribe 
Below  her — waters  resting  in  the  embrace 
Of  the  wide  forest,  and  maize-planted  glades 
Opening  amid  the  leafy  wilderness. 
She  gazed  upon  it  long,  and  at  the  sight 
Of  her  own  village  peeping  through  the  trees, 
And  her  own  dwelling,  and  the  cabin  roof 
Of  him  she  loved  with  an  unlawful  love, 
And  came  to  die  for,  a  warm  gush  of  tears 
Ran  from  her  eyes.    But  when  the  sun  grew 
low 

And  the  hill  shadows  long,  she  threw  herself 
From  the  steep  rock  and  perished.    There  was 
scooped, 


112 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Upon  the  mountain's  southern  slope,  a  grave  ; 
And  there  they  laid  her,  in  the  very  garb 
With  which  the  maiden  decked  herself  for  death, 
With  the  same  withering  wild  flowers  in  her 
hair. 

And  o'er  the  mould  that  covered  her,  the  tribe 
Built  up  a  simple  monument,  a  cone 
Of  small  loose  stones.    Thenceforward,  all  who 
passed, 

Hunter,  and  dame,  and  virgin,  laid  a  stone 
In  silence  on  the  pile.    It  stands  there  yet. 
And  Indians  from  the  distant  West,  who  come 
To  visit  where  their  fathers'  bones  are  laid, 
Yet  tell  the  sorrowful  tale,  and  to  this  day 
The  mountain  where  the  hapless  maiden  died 
Is  called  the  Mountain  of  the  Monument. 


THE  MURDERED  TRAVELLER. 


When  spring,  to  woods  and  wastes  around, 

Brought  bloom  and  joy  again, 
The  murdered  traveller's  bones  were  found, 

Far  down  a  narrow  glen. 

The  fragrant  birch,  above  him,  hung 

Her  tassels  in  the  sky ; 
And  many  a  vernal  blossom  sprung, 

And  nodded  careless  by. 

The  red-bird  warbled,  as  he  wrought 

His  hanging  nest  o'erhead, 
And  fearless,  near  the  fatal  spot, 

Her  young  the  partridge  led. 

But  there  was  weeping  far  away, 

And  gentle  eyes,  for  him, 

With  watching  many  an  anxious  day, 

Were  sorrowful  and  dim. 
8 

f 


ii4 


BRYANT'S  POEMS, 


They  little  knew,  who  loved  him  so, 

The  fearful  death  he  met, 
When  shouting  o'er  the  desert  snow, 

Unarmed,  and  hard  beset ; — • 

Nor  how,  when  round  the  frosty  pole 

The  northern  dawn  was  red, 
The  mountain  wolf  and  wild-cat  stole 

To  banquet  on  the  dead ; — 

Nor  how,  when  strangers  found  his  bones, 

They  dressed  the  hasty  bier, 
And  marked  his  grave  with  nameless  stones, 

Unmoistened  by  a  tear. 

But  long  they  looked,  and  feared,  and  wept, 

Within  his  distant  home  ; 
And  dreamed,  and  started  as  they  slept, 

For  joy  that  he  was  come. 

So  long  they  looked — but  never  spied 

His  welcome  step  again, 
Nor  knew  the  fearful  death  he  died 

Far  down  that  narrow  glen. 


SONG  OF  THE  GREEK  AMAZON. 


I  BUCKLE  to  my  slender  side 

The  pistol  and  the  cimeter, 
And  in  my  maiden  flower  and  pride 

Am  come  to  share  the  tasks  of  war. 
And  yonder  stands  my  fiery  steed, 

That  paws  the  ground  and  neighs  to  go, 
My  charger  of  the  Arab  breed, — 

I  took  him  from  the  routed  foe. 

My  mirror  is  the  mountain  spring, 

At  which  I  dress  my  ruffled  hair  ; 
My  dimmed  and  dusty  arms  I  bring, 

And  wash  away  the  blood-stain  there. 
Why  should  I  guard,  from  wind  and  sun, 

This  cheek,  whose  virgin  rose  is  fled? 
It  was  for  one — oh,  only  one — 

I  kept  its  bloom,  and  he  is  dead. 

But  they  who  slew  him — unaware 
Of  coward  murderers  lurking  nigh— 

And  left  him  to  the  fowls  of  air, 
Are  yet  alive — and  they  must  die. 


i6 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


They  slew  him — and  my  virgin  years 

Are  vowed  to  Greece  and  vengeance  now, 

And  many  an-Othman  dame,  in  tears, 
Shall  rue  the  Grecian  maiden's  vow. 

I  touched  the  lute  in  better  days, 

I  led  in  dance  the  joyous  band  ; 
Ah  !  they  may  move  to  mirthful  lays 

Whose  hands  can  touch  a  lover's  hand. 
The  march  of  hosts  that  haste  to  meet 

Seems  gayer  than  the  dance  to  me  ; 
The  lute's  sweet  tones  are  not  so  sweet 

As  the  fierce  shout  of  victory. 


THE  AFRICAN  CHIEF. 


Chained  in  the  market-place  he  stood, 

A  man  of  giant  frame, 
Amid  the  gathering  multitude 

That  shrunk  to  hear  his  name — 
All  stern  of  look  and  strong  of  limb, 

His  dark  eye  on  the  ground  : — 
And  silently  they  gazed  on  him, 

As  on  a  lion  bound. 

Vainly,  but  well,  that  chief  had  fought, 

He  was  a  captive  now, 
Yet  pride,  that  fortune  humbles  not, 

Was  written  on  his  brow. 
The  scars  his  dark  broad  bosom  wore 

Showed  warrior  true  and  brave  ; 
A  prince  among  his  tribe  before, 

He  could  not  be  a  slave. 

Then  to  his  conqueror  he  spake- — 

"  My  brother  is  a  king  ; 
Undo  this  necklace  from  my  neck, 

And  take  this  bracelet  ring, 


n8 


BRYANT'S  POEMS, 


And  send  me  where  my  brother  reigns, 

And  I  will  fill  thy  hands 
With  store  of  ivory  from  the  plains, 

And  gold-dust  from  the  sands." 

"  Not  for  thy  ivory  nor  thy  gold 

Will  I  unbind  thy  chain  ; 
That  bloody  hand  shall  never  hold 

The  battle-spear  again. 
A  price  thy  nation  never  gave, 

Shall  yet  be  paid  for  thee  ; 
For  thou  shalt  be  the  Christian's  slave, 

In  lands  beyond  the  sea.', 

Then  wept  the  warrior  chief,  and  bade 

To  shred  his  locks  away  ; 
And,  one  by  one,  each  heavy  braid 

Before  the  victor  lay. 
Thick  were  the  platted  locks,  and  long, 

And  deftly  hidden  there 
Shone  many  a  wedge  of  gold  among 

The  dark  and  crisped  hair. 

"  Look,  feast  thy  greedy  eye  with  gold 

Long  kept  for  sorest  need  ; 
Take  it — thou  askest  sums  untold, 

And  say  that  I  am  freed. 
Take  it — my  wife,  the  long,  long  day 

Weeps  by  the  cocoa-tree, 
And  my  young  children  leave  their  play, 

And  ask  in  vain  for  me." 


THE  AFRICAN  CHIEF.  119 

"  I  take  thy  gold — but  I  have  made 

Thy  fetters  fast  and  strong, 
And  ween  that  by  the  cocoa  shade 

Thy  wife  will  wait  thee  long/' 
Strong  was  the  agony  that  shook 

The  captive's  frame  to  hear, 
And  the  proud  meaning  of  his  look 

Was  changed  to  mortal  fear. 

His  heart  was  broken — crazed  his  brain  : 

At  once  his  eye  grew  wild  ; 
He  struggled  fiercely  with  his  chain, 

Whispered,  and  wept,  and  smiled  ; 
Yet  wore  not  long  those  fatal  bands, 

And  once,  at  shut  of  day, 
They  drew  him  forth  upon  the  sands, 

The  foul  hyena's  prey. 


SONG. 


SOON  as  the  glazed  and  gleaming  snow 
Reflects  the  day-dawn  cold  and  clear, 

The  hunter  of  the  West  must  go, 

In  depths  of  w#ods  to  seek  the  $eer.  ; 

His  rifle  on  his  shoulder  placed, 

His  stores  of  death  arranged  with  skill, 

His  moccasins  and  snow-shoes  laced, — 
Why  lingers  he  beside  the  hill  ? 

Far,  in  the  dim  and  doubtful  light, 
Where  woody  slopes  a  valley  leave, 

He  sees  what  none  but  lover  might, 
The  dwelling  of  his  Genevieve. 

And  oft  he  turns  his  truant  eye, 
And  pauses  oft,  and  lingers  near  ; 

But  when  he  marks  the  reddening  sky, 
He  bounds  away  to  hunt  the  deer. 


AN  INDIAN  STORY. 


"  I  KNOW  where  the  timid  fawn  abides 

In  the  depths  of  the  shaded  dell, 
Where  the  leaves  are  broad  and  the  thicket 
hides, 

With  its  many  sterns  and  its  tangled  sides, 
From  the  eye  of  the  hunter  well. 

"  I  know  where  the  young  May  violet  grows, 

In  its  lone  and  lowly  nook, 
On  the  mossy  bank,  where  the  larch-tree  throws 
Its  broad  dark  boughs,  in  solemn  repose, 

Far  over  the  silent  brook. 


"  And  that  timid  fawn  starts  not  with  fear 

When  I  steal  to  her  secret  bower, 
And  that  young  May  violet  to  me  is  dear, 
And  I  visit  the  silent  streamlet  near, 
To  look  on  the  lovely  flower." 


122 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Thus  Maquon  sings  as  he  lightly  walks 
To  the  hunting-ground  on  the  hills  ; 
'Tis  a  song  of  his  maid  of  the  woods  and  rocks, 
With  her  bright  black  eyes  and  long  black  locks, 
And  voice  like  the  music  of  rills. 

He  goes  to  the  chase — but  evil  eyes 

Are  at  watch  in  the  thicker  shades  ; 
For  she  was  lovely  that  smiled  on  his  sighs, 
And  he  bore,  from  a  hundred  lovers,  his  prize, 
The  flower  of  the  forest  maids. 

The  boughs  in  the  morning  wind  are  stirred 

And  the  woods  their  song  renew, 
With  the  early  carol  of  many  a  bird, 
And  the  quickened  tune  of  the  streamlet  heard 
Where  the  hazels  trickle  with  dew. 

And  Maquon  has  promised  his  dark-haired  maid, 

Ere  eve  shall  redden  the  sky, 
A  good  red  deer  from  the  forest  shade, 
That  bounds  with  the  herd  through  grove  and 
glade, 

At  her  cabin  door  shall  lie. 

The  hollow  woods,  in  the  setting  sun, 
Ring  shrill  with  the  fire-bird's  lay  ; 
And  Maquon's  sylvan  labors  are  done, 
And  his  shafts  are  spent,  but  the  spoil  they  won 
He  bears  on  his  homeward  way. 


AN  INDIAN  STORY. 


123 


He  stops  near  his  bower — his  eye  perceives 

Strange  traces  along  the  ground — 
At  once,  to  the  earth  his  burden  he  heaves, 
And  breaks  through  the  veil  of  boughs  and 
leaves, 

And  gains  its  door  with  a  bound. 

But  the  vines  are  torn  on  its  walls  that  leant, 

And  all  from  the  young  shrubs  there 
By  struggling  hands  have  the  leaves  been  rent, 
And  there  hangs,  on  the  sassafras  broken  and 
bent, 

One  tress  of  the  well-known  hair. 

But  where  is  she  who  at  this  calm  hour, 

Ever  watched  his  coming  to  see, 
She  is  not  at  the  door,  nor  yet  in  the  bower, 
He  calls — but  he  only  hears  on  the  flower 

The  hum  of  the  laden  bee. 

It  is  not  a  time  for  idle  grief, 

Nor  a  time  for  tears  to  flow, 
The  horror  that  freezes  his  limbs  is  brief — 
He  grasps  his  war-ax  and  bow,  and  a  sheaf 

Of  darts  made  sharp  for  the  foe. 

And  he  looks  for  the  print  of  the  ruffian's  feet, 

Where  he  bore  the  maiden  away  ; 
And  he  darts  on  the  fatal  path  more  fleet 
Than  the  blast  that  hurries  the  vapor  and  sleet 
O'er  the  wild  November  day. 


124 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


'Twas  early  summer  when  Maquon's  bride 

Was  stolen  away  from  his  door  ; 
But  at  length  the  maples  in  crimson  are  dyed, 
And  the  grape  is  black  on  the  cabin  side, 

And  she  smiles  at  his  hearth  once  more. 

But  far  in  a  pine-grove,  dark  and  cold, 

Where  the  yellow  leaf  falls  not, 
Nor  the  autumn  shines  in  scarlet  and  gold, 
There  lies  a  hillock  of  fresh  dark  mould, 

In  the  deepest  gloom  of  the  spot. 

And  the  Indian  girls,  that  pass  that  way, 

Point  out  the  ravisher's  grave  ; 
"  And  how  soon  to  the  bower  she  loved,"  they 
say, 

"  Returned  the  maid  that  was  borne  away 
From  Maquon,  the  fond  and  the  brave." 


THE  HUNTER'S  SERENADE. 


Thy  bower  is  finished,  fairest ! 

Fit  bower  for  hunter's  bride — 
Where  old  woods  overshadow 

The  green  savanna's  side. 
I've  wandered  long,  and  wandered  far, 

And  never  have  I  met, 
In  all  this  lovely  western  land, 

A  spot  so  lovely  yet. 
But  I  shall  think  it  fairer, 

When  thou  art  come  to  bless, 
With  thy  sweet  smile  and  silver  voice, 

Its  silent  loveliness. 

For  thee  the  wild  grape  glistens, 

On  sunny  knoll  and  tree, 
And  stoops  the  slim  papaya 

With  yellow  fruit  for  thee. 
For  thee  the  duck,  on  glassy  stream, 

The  prairie-fowl  shall  die, 
My  rifle  for  thy  feast  shall  bring 

The  wild  swan  from  the  sky. 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


The  forest's  leaping  panther, 

Fierce,  beautiful,  and  fleet, 
Shall  yield  his  spotted  hide  to  be 

A  carpet  for  thy  feet. 

I  know,  for  thou  hast  told  me, 

Thy  maiden  love  of  flowers  ; 
Ah,  those  that  deck  thy  gardens 

Are  pale  compared  with  ours. 
When  our  wide  woods  and  mighty  lawns 

Bloom  to  the  April  skies, 
The  earth  has  no  more  gorgeous  sight 

To  show  to  human  eyes. 
In  meadows  red  with  blossoms, 

All  summer  long,  the  bee 
Murmurs,  and  loads  his  yellow  thighs, 

For  thee,  my  love,  and  me. 

Or  wouldst  thou  gaze  at  tokens 

Of  ages  long  ago — 
Our  old  oaks  stream  with  mosses, 

And  sprout  with  mistletoe  ; 
And  mighty  vines,  like  serpents,  climb 

The  giant  sycamore  ; 
And  trunks,  o'erthrown  for  centuries, 

Cumber  the  forest  floor  ; 
And  in  the  great  savanna 

The  solitary  mound, 
Built  by  the  elder  world,  o'erlobks 

The  loneliness  around. 


THE  HUNTER'S  SERENADE.  127 

Come,  thou  hast  not  forgotten 

Thy  pledge  and  promise  quite, 
With  many  blushes  murmured, 

Beneath  the  evening  light. 
Come,  the  young  violets  crowd  my  door, 

Thy  earliest  look  to  win, . 
And  at  my  silent  window-sill 

The  jessamine  peeps  in. 
All  day  the  red-bird  warbles, 

Upon  the  mulberry  near, 
And  the  night-sparrow  trills  her  song? 

All  night,  with  none  to  hear. 


SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN. 


OUR  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  bold  ; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 

When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  green  wood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress-tree  ; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea. 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass, 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 

Wo  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  us  near  ! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear  : 
When  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again  ; 


SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN  129 


And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil : 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

Arid  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout, 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly, 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 

The' band  that  Marion  leads — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 
'Tis  life  our.  fiery  barbs  to  guide 

Across  the  moonlight  plains  ; 
'Tis  life  to  feel  the  night-wind 

That  lifts  their  tossing  manes. 
A  moment  in  the  British  camp — 

A  moment — and  away 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 
9 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs, 
Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band, 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton, 

Forever,  from  our  shore. 


SONG. 


DOST  thou  idly  ask  to  hear 

At  what  gentle  seasons 
Nymphs  relent,  when  lovers  near 

Press  the  tenderest  reasons  ? 
Ah,  they  give  their  faith  too  oft 

To  the  careless  wooer  ; 
Maidens'  hearts  are  always  soft ; 

Would  that  men's  were  truer  ! 

Woo  the  fair  one,  when  around 

Early  birds  are  singing  ; 
When,  o'er  all  the  fragrant  ground, 

Early  herbs  are  springing : 
When  the  brookside,  bank,  and  grove, 

All  with  blossoms  laden, 
Shine  with  beauty,  breathe  of  love,— 

Woo  the  timid  maiden. 

Woo  her  when,  with  rosy  blush, 

Summer  eve  is  sinking  ; 
When,  on  rills  that  softly  gush,. 

Stars  are  softly  winking  ; 


1 32 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


When,  through  boughs  that  knit  the  bower, 
Moonlight  gleams  are  stealing  ; 

Woo  her,  till  the  gentle  hour 
Wake  a  gentler  feeling. 

Woo  her,  when  autumnal  dies 

Tinge  the  woody  mountain  ; 
When  the  dropping  foliage  lies, 

In  the  weedy  fountain  ; 
Let  the  scene,  that  tells  how  fast 

Youth  is  passing  over, 
Warn  her,  ere  her  bloom  is  past, 

To  secure  her  lover. 

Woo  her,  when  the  north  winds  call 

At  the  lattice  nightly ; 
When,  within  the  cheerful  hall, 

Blaze  the  fagots  brightly  ; 
While  the  wintry  tempest  round 

Sweeps  the  landscape  hoary 
Sweeter  in  her  ear  shall  sound 

Love's  delightful  story. 


LOVE  AND  FOLLY. 

(FROM  LA  FONTAINE.) 


Love's  worshippers  alone  can  know 

The  thousand  mysteries  that  are  his  ; 
His  blazing  torch,  his  twanging  bow, 

His  blooming  age  are  mysteries. 
A  charming  science — but  the  day 

Were  all  too  short  to  con  it  o'er  ; 
So  take  of  me  this  little  lay, 

A  sample  of  its  boundless  lore. 

As  once,  beneath  the  fragrant  shade 

Of  myrtles  breathing  heaven's  own  air, 
The  children,  Love  and  Folly,  played — 

A  quarrel  rose  betwixt  the  pair. 
Love  said  the  gods  should  do  him  right — 

But  Folly  vowed  to  do  it  then, 
And  struck  him,  o'er  the  orbs  of  sight, 

So  hard,  he  never  saw  again. 


134 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


His  lovely  mother's  grief  was  deep, 

She  called  for  vengeance  on  the  deed  ; 
A  beauty  does  not  vainly  weep, 

Nor  coldly  does  a  mother  plead. 
A  shade  came  o'er  the  eternal  bliss 

That  fills  the  dwellers  of  the  skies  ; 
Even  stony-hearted  Nemesis, 

And  Rhadamanthus,  wiped  their  eyes. 

"  Behold,"  she  said,  "  this  lovely  boy," 

While  streamed  afresh  her  graceful  tears, 
"  Immortal,  yet  shut  out  from  joy 

And  sunshine,  all  his  future  years. 
The  child  can  never  take,  you  see, 

A  single  step  without  a  staff — 
The  harshest  punishment  would  be 

Too  lenient  for  the  crime  by  half." 

All  said  that  Love  had  suffered  wrong, 

And  well  that  wrong  should  be  repaid  ; 
Then  weighed  the  public  interest  long, 

And  long  the  party's  interest  weighed. 
And  thus  decreed  the  court  above — 

"  Since  Love  is  blind  from  Folly's  blow, 
Let  Folly  be  the  guide  of  Love, 

Where'er  the  boy  may  choose  to  go." 


F  ATI  MA  AND  RADUAN. 

(FROM  THE  SPANISH.) 


Diamante  falso  y  fingido, 
Engastado  en  pedernal,  etc. 

FALSE  diamond  set  in  flint  !  the  caverns  of  the 
mine 

Are  warmer  than  the  breast  that  holds  that  faith- 
less heart  of  thine  ; 

Thou  art  fickle  as  the  sea,  thou  art  wandering 
as  the  wind, 

And  the  restless  ever-mounting  flame  is  not 
more  hard  to  bind. 

If  the  tears  I  shed  were  tongues,  yet  all  too  few 
would  be, 

To  tell  of  all  the  treachery  that  thou  hast  shown 
to  me. 

Oh  !  I  could  chide  thee   sharply — but  every 

maiden  knows 
That  she  who  chides  her  lover,  forgives  him  ere 

he  goes. 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Thou  hast  called  me  oft  the  flower  of  all  Gre- 
nada's maids, 

Thou  hast  said  that  by  the  side  of  me  the  first 
and  fairest  fades  ; 

And  they  thought  thy  heart  was  mine,  and  it 
seemed  to  every  one 

That  what  thou  didst  to  win  my  love,  from  love 
of  me  was  done. 

Alas  !  if  they  but  knew  thee,  as  mine  it  is  to 
know, 

They  well  might  see  another  mark  to  which 

thine  arrows  go  ; 
But  thou  giv'st  me  little  heed — for  I  speak  to 

one  who  knows 
That  she  who  chides  her  lover,  forgives  him  ere 

he  goes. 

It  wearies  me,  mine  enemy,  that  I  must  weep 
and  bear 

What  fills  thy  heart  with  triumph,  and  fills  my 

own  with  care. 
Thou  art  leagued  with  those  that  hate  me,  and 

ah  !  thou  know'st  I  feel 
That  cruel  words  as  surely  kill  as  sharpest  blades 

of  steel. 

'Twas  the  doubt  that  thou  wert  false  that  wrung 

my  heart  with  pain  ; 
But,  now  I  know  thy  perfidy,  I  shall  be  well 

again. 


FA  TIM  A  AND  RAD  U AN.     .  137 

I  would  proclaim  thee  as  thou  art — but  every 

maiden  knows 
That  she  who  chides  her  lover,  forgives  him  ere 

he  goes. 

Thus  Fatima  complained  to  the  valiant  Raduan, 
Where  underneath  the  myrtles  Alhambra's  foun- 
tains ran  : 

The  Moor  was  inly  moved,  and  blameless  as  he 
was, 

He  took  her  white  hand  in  his  own,  and  pleaded 
thus  his  cause  : 

Oh,  lady,  dry  those  star-like  eyes — their  dim- 
ness does  me  wrong  ; 

If  my  heart  be  made  of  flint,  at  least  'twill  keep 
thy  image  long  : 

Thou  hast  uttered  cruel  words — but  I  grieve 
the  less  for  those, 

Since  she  who  chides  her  lover,  forgives  him  ere 
he  goes. 


THE  DEATH  OF  ALIATAR. 

(FROM  THE  SPANISH.) 


*TlS  not  with  gilded  sabres 

That  gleam  in  baldricks  blue, 
Nor  nodding  plumes  in  caps  of  Fez, 

Of  gay  and  gaudy  hue — 
But,  habited  in  mourning  weeds, 

Come  marching  from  afar, 
By  four  and  four,  the  valiant  men 

Who  fought  with  Aliatar. 
All  mournfully  and  slowly 

The  afflicted  warriors  come, 
To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet, 

And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 

The  banner  of  the  Phcenix, 

The  flag  that  loved  the  sky 
That  scarce  the  wind  dared  wanton  with 

It  flew  so  proud  and  high — 
Now  leaves  its  place  in  battle-field, 

And  sweeps  the  ground  in  grief 
The  bearer  drags  its  glorious  folds 

Behind  the  fallen  chief, 


THE  DEATH  OF  ALIA  TAR. 

As  mournfully  and  slowly 
The  afflicted  warriors  come, 

To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet, 
And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 

Brave  Aliatar  led  forward 

A  hundred  Moors  to  go 
To  where  his  brother  held  Motril 

Against  the  leaguering  foe. 
On  horseback  went  the  gallant  Moor, 

That  gallant  band  to  lead  ; 
And  now  his  bier  is  at  the  gate, 

From  whence  he  pricked  his  steed. 
While  mournfully  and  slowly 

The  afflicted  warriors  come, 
To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet, 

And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 

The  knights  of  the  Grand  Master 

In  crowded  ambush  lay  ; 
They  rushed  upon  him  where  the  reeds 

Were  thick  beside  the  way  ; 
They  smote  the  valiant  Aliatar, 

They  smote  him  till  he  died, 
And  broken,  but  not  beaten,  were 

The  brave  ones  by  his  side. 
Now  mournfully  and  slowly 

The  afflicted  warriors  come, 
To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet, 

And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 


140 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Oh  !  what  was  Zayda's  sorrow, 

How  passionate  her  cries  ! 
Her  lover's  wounds  streamed  not  more  free 

Than  that  poor  maiden's  eyes. 
Say,  Love — for  thou  didst  see  her  tears  : 

Oh,  no  !  he  drew  more  tight 
The  blinding  fillet  o'er  his  lids, 

To  spare  his  eyes  the  sight 
While  mournfully  and  slowly 

The  afflicted  warriors  come, 
To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet, 

And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 

Nor  Zayda  weeps  him  only, 

But  all  that  dwell  between 
The  great  Alhambra's  palace  walls 

And  springs  of  Albaicin. 
The  ladies  weep  the  flower  of  knights, 

The  brave  the  bravest  here  ; 
The  people  weep  a  champion, 

The  Alcaydes  a  noble  peer. 
While  mournfully  and  slowly 

The  afflicted  warriors  come, 
To  the  deep  wail  of  the  trumpet, 

And  beat  of  muffled  drum. 


THE  ALCAYDE  OF  MOLINA. 

(FROM  THE  SPANISH.) 


To  the  town  of  Atienza,  Molina's  brave  Alcayde, 

The  courteous  and  the  valorous,  led  forth  his 
bold  brigade. 

The  Moor  came  back  in  triumph,  he  came  with- 
out a  wound, 

With  many  a  Christian  standard,  and  Christian 
captive  bound. 

He  passed  the  city  portals,  with  swelling  heart 
and  vein, 

And  toward  his  lady's  dwelling,  he  rode  with 

slackened  rein  ; 
Two  circuits  on  his  charger  he  took,  and  at  the 

third, 

From  the  door  of  her  balcony  Zelinda's  voice 
was  heard. 

"  Now  if  thou  wertnot  shameless/'  said  the  lady 

to  the  Moor, 
"  Thou  wouldst  neither  pass  my  dwelling,  nor 

stop  before  my  door. 


142  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Alas  for  poor  Zelinda,  and  for  her  wayward 
mood, 

That  one  in  love  with  peace,  should  have  loved 

a  man  of  blood  ! 
Since  not  that  thou  wert  noble  I  chose  thee  for 

my  knight, 

But  that  thy  sword  was  dreaded  in  tourney  and 
in  fight. 

Ah  thoughtless  and  unhappy  !  that  I  should  fail 
to  see 

How  ill  the  stubborn  flint  and  the  yielding  wax 
agree. 

Boast  not  thy  love  for  me,  while  the  shrieking 
of  the  fife 

Can  change  thy  mood  of  mildness  to  fury  and 
to  strife. 

Say  not  my  voice  is  magic — thy  pleasure  is  to 
hear 

The  bursting  of  the  carbine,  and  shivering  of  the 
spear. 

Well,  follow  thou  thy  choice — to  the  battle-field 
away, 

To  thy  triumphs  and  thy  trophies,  since  I  am 

less  than  they. 
Thrust  thy  arm  into  thy  buckler,  gird  on  thy 

crooked  brand, 
And  call  upon  thy  trusty  squire  to  bring  thy 

spears  in  hand. 
Lead  forth  thy  band  to  skirmish,  by  mountain 

and  by  mead, 


THE  ALCAYDE  OF  MOLINA. 


H3 


On  thy  dappled  Moorish  barb,  or  thy  fleeter 

border  steed. 
Go,  waste  the  Christian  hamlets,  and  sweep 

away  their  flocks, 
From  Almazan's  broad  meadows  to  Siguenza's 

rocks. 

Leave  Zelinda  altogether,  whom  thou  leavest 

oft  and  long, 
And  in  the  life  thou  lovest  forget  whom  thou 

dost  wrong. 

These  eyes  shall  not  recall  thee,  though  they 

meet  no  more  thine  own, 
Though  they  weep  that  thou  art  absent,  and  that 

I  am  all  alone." 
She  ceased,  and  turning  from  him  her  flushed 

and  angry  cheek, 
Shut  the  door  of  her  balcony  before  the  Moor 

could  speak. 


FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  VILLEGAS. 

TlS  sweet,  in  the  green  Spring, 
To  gaze  upon  the  wakening  fields  around  ; 

Birds  in  the  thicket  sing, 
Winds  whisper,  waters  prattle  from  the  ground  ; 

A  thousand  odors  rise, 
Breathed  up  from  blossoms  of  a  thousand  dies. 

Shadowy,  and  close,  and  cool, 
The  pine  and  poplar  keep  their  quiet  nook  ; 

Forever  fresh  and  full, 
Shines,  at  their  feet,  the  thirst-inviting  brook; 

And  the  soft  herbage  seems 
Spread  for  a  place  of  banquets  and  of  dreams. 

Thou,  who  alone  art  fair, 
And  whom  alone  I  love,  art  far  away. 

Unless  thy  smile  be  there, 
It  makes  me  sad  to  see  the  earth  so  gay ; 

I  care  not  if  the  train 
Of  leaves,  and  flowers,  and  zephyrs  go  again, 

J 

THE  LIFE  OF  THE  BLESSED. 


(FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  LUIS  PONCE  DE  LEON.) 


Region  of  life  and  light ! 

Land  of  the  good  whose  earthly  toils  are  o'er  ! 
Nor  frost  nor  heat  may  blight 
Thy  vernal  beauty,  fertile  shore, 

Yielding  thy  blessed  fruits  for  evermore  ! 

There,  without  crook  or  sling, 
Walks  the  good  shepherd  ;  blossoms  white  and 
red 

Round  his  meek  temples  cling  ; 
And,  to  sweet  pastures  led, 
His  own  loved  flock  beneath  his  eye  is  fed. 

He  guides,  and  near  him  they 
Follow  delighted,  for  he  makes  them  go 

Where  dwells  eternal  May, 

And  heavenly  roses  blow, 
Deathless,  and  gathered  but  again  to  grow. 

IO 


146 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


He  leads  them  to  the  height 
Named  of  the  infinite  and  long-sought  Good, 

And  fountains  of  delight ; 

And  where  his  feet  have  stood 
Springs  up,  along  the  way,  their  tender  food. 

And  when,  in  the  mid  skies, 
The  climbing  sun  has  reached  his  highest  bound, 

Reposing  as  he  lies, 

With  all  his  flock  around, 
He  witches  the  still  air  with  numerous  sound. 

From  his  sweet  lute  flow  forth 
Immortal  harmonies,  of  power  to  still 

All  passions  born  of  earth, 

And  draw  the  ardent  will 
Its  destiny  of  goodness  to  fulfil. 

Might  but  a  little  part, 
A  wandering  breath  of  that  high  melody, 

Descend  into  my  heart, 

And  change  it  till  it  be 
Transformed  and  swallowed  up,  oh  love  !  in  thee. 

Ah  !  then  my  soul  should  know, 
Beloved  !  where  thou  liest  at  noon  of  day, 

And  from  this  place  of  woe 

Released,  should  take  its  way 
To  mingle  with  thy  flock  and  never  stray. 


MARY  MAGDALEN. 


(FROM   THE   SPANISH  OF   BARTOLOME  LEONARDO  DE  ARGEN- 
SOLA.) 


BLESSED,  yet  sinful  one,  and  broken-hearted  ! 
The  crowd  are  pointing  at  the  thing  forlorn, 
In  wonder  and  in  scorn  ! 
Thou  weepest  days  of  innocence  departed  ; 
Thou  weepest,  and  thy  tears  have  power  to 
move 

The  Lord  to  pity  and  love. 


The  greatest  of  thy  follies  is  forgiven, 

Even  for  the  least  of  all  the  tears  that  shine 
On  that  pale  cheek  of  thine. 
Thou  didst  kneel  down,  to  Him  who  came  from 
heaven, 

Evil  and  ignorant,  and  thou  shalt  rise 
Holy,  and  pure,  and  wise. 


148  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

It  is  not  much  that  to  the  fragrant  blossom 
The  ragged  brier  should  change  ;  the  bitter  fir 
Distil  Arabian  myrrh  ; 
Nor  that,  upon  the  wintry  desert's  bosom, 
The  harvest  should  rise  plenteous,  and  the 
swain 

Bear  home  the  abundant  grain. 


But  come  and  see  the  bleak  and  barren  moun- 
tains 

Thick  to  their  tops  with  roses  ;  come  and  see 
Leaves  on  the  dry  dead  tree  : 
The  perished  plant,  set  out  by  living  fountains, 

Grows  fruitful,  and  its  beauteous  branches  rise, 
Forever,  toward  the  skies. 


THE  SIESTA. 

(FROM    THE  SPANISH.) 


Vientecico  murmurador, 
Que  lo  gozas  y  andas  todo,  etc. 

AlRS,  that  wander  and  murmur  round, 
Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow  ! 

Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound, 

While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 

Lighten  and  lengthen  her  noonday  rest, 
Till  the  heat  of  the  noonday  sun  is  o'er. 

Sweet  be  her  slumbers  !  though  in  my  breast 
The  pain  she  has  waked  may  slumber  no  more 

Breathing  soft  from  the  blue  profound, 
Bearing  delight  where'er  ye  blow, 

Make  in  the  elms  a  lulling  sound, 

While  my  lady  sleeps  in  the  shade  below. 


BRYANT'  '-///?/ 


Airs  !  that  over  the  bendhg  wtwy^w. 
And  under  the  shadow   o  tie  \ 

Murmur  soft,  like  m'  timt<  mv 

Or  the  secret  sighs  rrr  K/Hnu  u.^/res 

Gently  sweeping  the  ;r<^'  v  ^murtd 
Bearing  delight  when  blow 

Make  in  the  elms     inline-  •'imw, 

While  my  lady  sleep   h  tta  shade  below. 


FROM  THE  SPANISH 


OF  PEDRO  DE  CASTRO  Y  ANAYA. 


Stay,  rivulet,  nor  haste  to  leave 

The  lovely  vale  that  lies  around  thee. 

Why  wouldst  thou  be  a  sea.  at  eve, 

When  but  a  fount  the  morning  found  thee 

Born  when  the  skies  began  to  glow, 

Humblest  of  all  the  .rock's  cold  daughters, 

No  blossom  bowed  its  stalk  to  show 
Where  stole  thy  still  and  scanty  waters. 

Now  on  thy  stream  the  noonbeams  look, 
Usurping,  as  thou  downward  driftest, 

Its  crystal  from  the  clearest  brook, 
Its  rushing  current  from  the  swiftest. 


152 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Ah  !  what  wild  haste  ! — and  all  to  be 

A  river  and  expire  in  ocean. 
Each  fountain's  tribute  hurries  thee 

To  that  vast  grave  with  quicker  motion. 

Far  better  'twere  to  linger  still 

In  this  green  vale,  these  flowers  to  cherish, 
And  die  in  peace,  an  aged  rill, 

Than  thus,  a  youthful  Danube,  perish. 


THE  COUNT  OF  GREIERS. 

(FROM  THE  GERMAN.) 

At  morn  the  Count  of  Greiers  before  his  castle 
stands  ; 

He  sees  afar  the  glory  that  lights  the  mountain 
lands  ; 

The  horned  crags  are  shining,  and  in  the  shade 
between 

A  pleasant  Alpine  valley  lies  beautifully  green. 

"  Oh,  greenest  of  the  valleys,  how  shall  I  come 
to  thee  ! 

Thy  herdsmen  and  thy  maidens,  how  happy 

must  they  be  ! 
I  have  gazed  upon  thee  coldly,  all  lovely  as  thou 

art, 

But  the  wish  to  walk  thy  pastures  now  stirs  my 
inmost  heart." 

■ 


154  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

He  hears  a  sound  of  timbrels,  and  suddenly  ap- 
pear 

A  troop  of  ruddy  damsels  and  herdsmen  draw- 
ing near  ; 

They  reach  the  castle  greensward,  and  gayly 

dance  across  ; 
The  white  sleeves  flit  and  glimmer,  the  wreaths 

and  ribbons  toss. 

The  youngest  of  the  maidens,  slim  as  a  spray  of 
spring, 

She  takes  the  young  Count's  fingers,  and  draws 
him  to  the  ring  ; 

They  fling  upon  his  forehead  a  crown  of  moun- 
tain flowers, 

"  And  ho,  young  Count  of  Greiers  !  this  morn- 
ing thou  art  ours  !  " 

Then  hand  in  hand  departing,  with  dance  and 
roundelay, 

Through  hamlet  after  hamlet,  they  lead  the 

Count  away. 
They  dance  through  wood  and  meadow,  they 

dance  across  the  linn, 
Till  the  mighty  Alpine  summits  have  shut  the 

music  in. 

The  second  morn  is  risen,  and  now  the  third  is 
come  ; 


THE  COUNT  OF  GREIERS.  155 


Where  stays  the  Count  of  Greiers  ?  has  he  for- 
got his  home  ? 
Again  the  evening  closes,  in  thick  and  sultry  air, 
There's  thunder  on  the  mountains,  the  storm  is 
gathering  there. 

The  cloud  has  shed  its  waters,  the  brook  comes 

swollen  down  ; 
You  see  it  by  the  lightning — a  river  wide  and 

brown. 

Around  a  struggling  swimmer  the  eddies  dash 
and  roar, 

Till,  seizing  on  a  willow,  he  swings  him  to  the 
shore. 

11  Here  am  I  cast  by  tempests  far  from  your 

mountain  dell. 
Amid  our  evening  dances  the  bursting  deluge 

fell. 

Ye  all,  in  cots  and  caverns,  have  'scaped  the 
waterspout, 

While  me  alone  the  tempest  o'erwhelmed  and 
hurried  out. 

"  Farewell,  with  thy  glad  dwellers,  green  vale 

among  the  rocks  ! 
Farewell  the  swift  sweet  moments,  in  which  I 

wTatched  thy  flocks  ! 


1 56  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

Why  rocked  they  not  my  cradle  in  that  delicious 
spot, 

That  garden  of  the  happy,  where  heaven  en- 
dures me  not? 

"  Rose  of  the  Alpine  valley  !  I  feel,  in  every 
vein, 

Thy  soft  touch  on  my  fingers  ;  oh,  press  them 
not  again  ! 

Bewitch  me  not,  ye  garlands,  to  tread  that  up- 
ward track, 

And  thou,  my  cheerless  mansion,  receive  thy 
master  back." 


SONG. 


(FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  IGLESIAS.) 


ALEXIS  calls  me  cruel ; 

The  rifted  crags  that  hold 
The  gathered  ice  of  winter, 

He  says,  are  not  more  cold. 
« 

When  even  the  very  blossoms 
Around  the  fountain's  brim, 

And  forest  walks,  can  witness 
The  love  I  bear  to  him. 

I  would  that  I  could  utter 
My  feelings  without  shame  ; 

And  tell  him  how  I  love  him, 
Nor  wrong  my  virgin  fame. 

Alas  !  to  seize  the  moment 
When  heart  inclines  to  heart, 

And  press  a  suit  with  passion, 
Is  not  a  woman's  part. 

If  man  comes  not  to  gather 
The  roses  where  they  stand, 

They  fade  among  their  foliage  ; 
They  cannot  seek  his  hand. 


SONNET. 


(FROM   THE   PORTUGUESE   OF  SEMEDO.) 


It  is  a  fearful  night  ;  a  feeble  glare 

Streams  from  the  sick  moon  in  the  o'erclouded 
sky  ; 

The  ridgy  billows,  with  a  mighty  cry, 
Rush  on  the  foamy  beaches  wild  and  bare ; 
No  bark  the  madness  of  the  waves  will  dare  ; 

The  sailors  sleep  ;  the  winds  are  loud  and  high  ; 

Ah,  peerless  Laura  !  for  whose  love  I  die, 
Who  gazes  on  thy  smiles  while  I  despair  ? 

As  thus,  in  bitterness  of  heart,  I  cried, 
I  turned,  and  saw  my  Laura,  kind  and  bright, 

A  messenger  of  gladness,  at  my  side  : 
To  my  poor  bark  she  sprang  with  footstep  light, 

And  as  we  furrowed  Tago's  heaving  tide, 
I  never  saw  so  beautiful  a  nigjit. 


LOVE  IN  THE  AGE  OF  CHIVALRY. 


(FROM  PEYRE  VIDAL,   THE  TROUBADOUR.) 


THE  earth  was  sown  with  early  flowers, 

The  heavens  were  blue  and  bright— . 
I  met  a  youthful  cavalier 

As  lovely  as  the  light. 
I  knew  him  not — but  in  my  heart 

His  graceful  image  lies, 
And  well  I  marked  his  open  brow, 

His  sweet  and  tender  eyes, 
His  ruddy  lips  that  ever  smiled, 

His  glittering  teeth  betwixt, 
And  flowing  robe  embroidered  o'er, 

With  leaves  and  blossoms  mixed. 
He  wore  a  chaplet  of  the  rose, 

His  palfrey,  white  and  sleek, 
Was  marked  with  many  an  ebon  spot, 

And  many  a  purple  streak  ; 
Of  jasper  was  his  saddle-bow, 

His  housings  sapphire  stone, 


BRYANT'S  POEMS, 


And  brightly  in  his  stirrup  glanced 

The  purple  calcedon. 
Fast  rode  the  gallant  cavalier, 

As  youthful  horsemen  ride  ; 
Peyre  Vidal  !  know  that  I  am  Love, 

The  blooming  stranger  cried  ; 
And  this  is  Mercy  by  my  side, 

A  dame  of  high  degree  ; 
This  maid  is  Chastity,  he  said, 

This  squire  is  Loyalty. 


THE  LOVE  OF  GOD. 

(FROM  THE  PROVENCAL  OF  BERNARD  RASCAS. ) 


All  things  that  are  on  earth  shall  wholly  pass 
away, 

Except  the  love  of  God,  which  shall  live  and  last 
for  aye.  1 

The  forms  of  men  shall  be  as  they  had  never 
been  ; 

The  blasted  groves  shall  lose  their  fresh  and 

tender  green  ; 
The  birds  of  the  thicket  shall  end  their  pleasant 

song, 

And  the  nightingale  shall  cease  to  chant  the 

evening  long. 
The  kine  of  the  pasture  shall  feel  the  dart  that 

kills, 

And  all  the  fair  white  flocks  shall  perish  from 
the  hills. 

The  goat  and  antlered  stag,  the  wolf  and  the 
fox, 

The  wild-boar  of  the  wood,  and  the  chamois  of 
the  rocks, 


1 62  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

And  the  strong  and  fearless  bear,  in  the  trodden 

dust  shall  lie  ; 
And  the  dolphin  of  the  sea,  and  the  mighty 

whale,  shall  die. 
And  realms  shall  be  dissolved,  and  empires  be 

no  more, 

And  they  shall  bow  to  death,  who  ruled  from 

shore  to  shore  ; 
And  the  great  globe  itself  (so  the  holy  writings 

tell), 

With  the  rolling  firmament,  where  the  starry 

armies  dwell, 
Shall  melt  with  fervent  heat— they  shall  all  pass 

away, 

Except  the  love  of  God,  which  shall  live  and  last 
for  aye. 


THE  HURRICANE. 


Lord  of  the  winds  !  I  feel  thee  nigh, 
I  know  thy  breath  in  the  burning  sky  ! 
And  I  wait,  with  a  thrill  in  every  vei-n, 
For  the  coming  of  the  hurricane  ! 

And  lo  !  on  the  wing  of  the  heavy  gales, 
Through  the  boundless  arch  of  heaven  he  sails  ; 
Silent,  and  slow,  and  terribly  strong, 
The  mighty  shadow  is  borne  along, 
Like  the  dark  eternity  to  come  ; 
While  the  world  below,  dismayed  and  dumb, 
Through  the  calm  of  the  thick  hot  atmosphere 
Looks  up  at  its  gloomy  folds  with  fear. 

They  darken  fast — and  the  golden  blaze 
Of  the  sun  is  quenched  in  the  lurid  haze, 
And  he  sends  through  the  shade  a  funeral  ray — 
A  glare  that  is  neither  night  nor  day, 
A  beam  that  touches,  with  hues  of  death, 
The  clouds  above  and  the  earth  beneath. 
To  its  covert  glides  the  silent  bird, 
While  the  hurricane's  distant  voice  is  heard, 
Uplifted  among  the  mountains  round, 
And  the  forests  hear  and  answer  the  sound. 


164 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


He  is  come  !  he  is  come  !  do  ye  not  behold 
His  ample  robes  on  the  wind  unrolled  ? 
Giant  of  air  !  we  bid  thee  hail  ! — 
How  his  gray  skirts  toss  in  the  whirling  gale; 
How  his  huge  and  writhing  arms  are  bent, 
To  clasp  the  zone  of  the  firmament, 
And  fold,  at  length,  in  their  dark  embrace, 
From  mountain  to  mountain  the  visible  space. 

Darker — still  darker  !  the  whirlwinds  bear 
The  dust  of  the  plains  to  the  middle  air  : 
And  hark  to  the  crashing,  long  and  loud, 
Of  the  chariot  of  God  in  the  thunder-cloud  ! 
You  may  trace  its  path  by  the  flashes  that  start 
From  the  rapid  wheels  where'er  they  dart, 
As  the  fire-bolts  leap  to  the  world  below, 
And  flood  the  skies  with  a  lurid  glow. 

What  roar  is  that  ? — 'tis  the  rain  that  breaks, 
In  torrents  away  from  the  airy  lakes, 
Heavily  poured  on  the  shuddering  ground, 
.And  shedding  a  nameless  horror  round. 
Ah  !  well-known  woods,  and  mountains,  and 
skies, 

With  the  very  clouds  ! — ye  are  lost  to  my  eyes. 
I  seek  ye  vainly,  and  see  in  your  place 
The  shadowy   tempest    that  sweeps  through 
space, 

A  whirling  ocean  that  fills  the  wall 
Of  the  crystal  heaven,  and  buries  all. 
And  I,  cut  off  from  the  world,  remain 
Alone  with  the  terrible  hurricane. 


MARCH. 


The  stormy  March  is  come  at  last, 

With  wind,  and  cloud,  and  changing  skies 

I  hear  the  rushing  of  the  blast, 

That  through  the  snowy  valley  flies. 

Ah,  passing  few  are  they  who  speak, 
Wild  stormy  month  !  in  praise  of  thee  ; 

Yet,  though  thy  winds  are  loud  and  bleak, 
Thou  art  a  welcome  month  to  me. 

For  thou,  to  northern  lands  again, 
The  glad  and  glorious  sun  dost  bring, 

And  thou  hast  joined  the  gentle  train 
And  wear'st  the  gentle  name  of  Spring. 

And,  in  thy  reign  of  blast  and  storm, 
Smiles  many  a  long,  bright,  sunny  day, 

When  the  changed  winds  are  soft  and  warm, 
And  heaven  puts  on  the  blue  of  May. 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Then  sing  aloud  the  gushing  rills 

And  the  full  springs,  from  frost  set  free, 

That,  brightly  leaping  down  the  hills, 
Are  just  set  out  to  meet  the  sea. 

The  year's  departing  beauty  hides 
Of  wintry  storms,  the  sullen  threat ; 

But,  in  thy  sternest  frown  abides 
A  look  of  kindly  promise  yet. 

Thou  bring'st  the  hope  of  those  calm  skies, 
And  that  soft  time  of  sunny  showers, 

When  the  wide  bloom,  on  earth  that  lies, 
Seems  of  a  brighter  world  than  ours. 


SPRING  IN  TOWN. 


The  country  ever  has  a  lagging  Spring, 
Waiting  for  May  to  call  its  violets  forth, 

And  June  its  roses — showers  and  sunshine  bring, 
Slowly,  the  deepening  verdure  o'er  the  earth  ; 

To  put  their  foliage  out,  the  woods  are  slack, 

And  one  by  one  the  singing-birds  come  back. 

Within  the  city's  bounds  the  time  of  flowers 
Comes  earlier.     Let  a  mild  and  sunny  day, 

Such  as  full  often,  for  a  few  bright  hours, 

Breathes  through  the  sky  of  March  the  airs  of 
May, 

Shine  on  our  roofs  and  chase  the  wintry  gloom — 
And  lo  !  our  borders  glow  with  sudden  bloom. 

For  the  wide  sidewalks  of  Broadway  are  then 
Gorgeous  as  are  a  rivulet's  banks  in  June, 

That  overhung  with  blossoms,  through  its  glen, 
Slides  soft  away  beneath  the  sunny  noon, 

Arid  they  who  search  the  untrodden  wood  for 
flowers 

Meet  in  its  depths  no  lovelier  ones  than  ours. 


i68 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


For  here  are  eyes  that  shame  the  violet, 
Or  the  dark  drop  that  on  the  pansy  lies, 

And  foreheads,  white,  as  when  in  clusters  set, 
The  anemones  by  forest  fountains  rise  ; 

And  the  spring-beauty  boasts  no  tenderer  streak 

Than  the  soft  red  on  many  a  youthful  cheek. 

And  thick  about  those  lovely  temples  lie 

Locks  that  the  lucky  Vignardonne  has  curled, 

Thrice  happy  man  !  whose  trade  it  is  to  buy, 
And  bake,  and  braid  those  love-knots  of  the 
world  ; 

Who  curls  of  every  glossy  color  keepest, 
And  sellest,  it  is  said,  the  blackest  cheapest. 

And  well  thou  may'st — for  Italy's  brown  maids 
Send  the  dark  locks  with  which  their  brows 
are  dressed, 

And  Gascon  lasses,  from  their  jetty  braids, 
Crop  half,  to  buy  a  ribbon  for  the  rest ; 

But  the  fresh  Norman  girls  their  tresses  spare, 

And  the  Dutch  damsel  keeps  her  flaxen  hair. 

Then,  henceforth,  let  no  maid  nor  matron  grieve, 
To  see  her  locks  of  an  unlovely  hue, 

Frouzy  or  thin,  for  liberal  art  shall  give 
Such  piles  of  curls  as  nature  never  knew. 

Eve,  with  her  veil  of  tresses,  at  the  sight 

Had  blushed,    outdone,  and  owned   herself  a 
fright. 


SPRING  IN  TOWN 


Soft  voices  and  light  laughter  wake  the  street, 

Like  notes  of  woodbirds,  and  where'er  the  eye 
Threads  the  long  way,  plumes  wave,  and  twink- 
ling feet 

Fall  light,  as  hastes  that  crowd  of  beauty  by. 
The  ostrich,  hurrying  o'er  the  desert  space, 
Scarce  bore  those  tossing  plumes  with  fleeter 
pace. 

No  swimming  Juno  gait,  of  languor  born, 
Is  theirs,  but  a  light  step  of  freest  grace, 

Light  as  Camilla's  o'er  the  unbent  corn, 
A  step  that  speaks  the  spirit  of  the  place, 

Since  Quiet,  meek  old  dame,  was  driven  away 

To  Sing  Sing  and  the  shores  of  Tappan  Bay. 

Ye  that  dash  by  in  chariots  !  who  will  care 
For  steeds  or  footmen  now  ?  ye  cannot  show 

Fair  face,  and  dazzling  dress,  and  graceful  air, 
And  last  edition  of  the  shape  !    Ah  no, 

These  sights  are  for  the  earth  and  open  sky, 

And  your  loud  wheels  unheeded  rattle  by. 


SUMMER  WIND. 


It  is  a  sultry  day  ;  the  sun  has  drank 
The  dew  that  lay  upon  the  morning  grass  ; 
There  is  no  rustling  in  the  lofty  elm 
That  canopies  my  dwelling,  and  its  shade 
Scarce  cools  me.    All  is  silent,  save  the  faint 
And  interrupted  murmur  of  the  bee, 
Settling  on  the  sick  flowers,  and  then  again 
Instantly  on  the  wing.    The  plants  around 
Feel  the  too  potent  fervors  :  the  tall  maize 
Rolls  up  its  long  green  leaves  ;  the  clover  droops 
Its  tender  foliage,  and  declines  its  blooms. 
But  far  in  the  fierce  sunshine  tower  the  hills, 
With  all  their  growth  of  woods,  silent  and  stern, 
As  if  the  scorching  heat  and  dazzling  light 
Were  but  an  element  they  loved.    Bright  clouds, 
Motionless  pillars  of  the  brazen  heaven, — 
Their  bases  on  the  mountains — their  wrhite  tops 
Shining  in  the  far  ether — fire  the  air 
With  a  reflected  radiance,  and  make  turn 
The  gazer's  eye  away.    For  me,  I  lie 
Languidly  in  the  shade,  where  the  thick  turf, 
Yet  virgin  from  the  kisses  of  the  sun, 


SUMMER  WIND. 


171 


Retains  some  freshness,  and  I  woo  the  wind 
That  still  delays  its  coming.    Why  so  slow, 
Gentle  and  voluble  spirit  of  the  air  ? 
Oh,  come  and  breathe  upon  the  fainting  earth 
Coolness  and  life.     Is  it  that  in  his  caves 
He  hears  me  ?    See,  on  yonder  woody  ridge, 
The  pine  is  bending  his  proud  top,  and  now 
Among  the  nearer  groves,  chestnut  and  oak 
Are  tossing  their  green  boughs  about.  He 
comes  ! 

Lo, -where  the  grassy  meadow  runs  in  waves  ! 
The  deep  distressful  silence  of  the  scene 
Breaks  up  with  mingling  of  unnumbered  sounds 
And  universal  motion.    He  is  come, 
Shaking  a  shower  of  blossoms  from  the  shrubs, 
And  bearing  on  their  fragrance  ;  and  he  brings 
Music  of  birds,  and  rustling  of  young  boughs, 
And  sound  of  swaying  branches,  and  the  voice 
Of  distant  waterfalls.    All  the  green  herbs 
Are  stirring  in  his  breath  ;  a  thousand  flowers, 
By  the  road-side  and  the  borders  of  the  brook, 
Nod  gayly  to  each  other  ;  glossy  leaves 
Are  twinkling  in  the  sun,  as  if  the  dew 
Were  on  them  yet,  and  silver  waters  break 
Into  small  waves  and  sparkle  as  he  comes. 


AUTUMN  WOODS. 


Ere,  in  the  northern  gale, 
The  summer  tresses  of  the  trees  are  gone, 
The  woods  of  Autumn,  all  around  our  vale 

Have  put  their  glory  on. 

The  mountains  that  infold, 
In  their  wide  sweep,  the  colored  landscape  round 
Seem  groups  of  giant  kings,  in  purple  and  gold, 

That  guard  the  enchanted  ground. 

I  roam  the  woods  that  crown 
The  upland,  where  the  mingled  splendors  glow 
Where  the  gay  company  of  trees  look  down 

On  the  green  fields  below. 

My  steps  are  not  alone 
In  these  bright  walks  ;  the  sweet  southwest,  at 
play, 

Flies,  rustling,  where  the  painted  leaves  are 
stroWn 
Along  the  winding  way. 


AUTUMN  WOODS. 


173 


And  far  in  heaven,  the  while, 
The  sun,  that  sends  that  gale  to  wander  here, 
Pours  out  on  the  fair  earth  his  quiet  smile, — 

The  sweetest  of  the  year. 

Where  now  the  solemn  shade, 
Verdure  and  gloom  where  many  branches  meet  ; 
So  grateful,  when  the  moon  of  summer  made 

The  valleys  sick  with  heat  ? 

Let  in  through  all  the  trees 
Come  the  strange  rays  ;  the  forest  depths  are 
bright  ; 

Their  sunny-colored  foliage,  in  the  breeze 
Twinkles,  like  beams  of  light. 

The  rivulet,  late  unseen, 
Where  bickering  through  the  shrubs  its  waters 
run, 

Shines  with  the  image  of  its  golden  screen, 
And  glimmerings  of  the  sun. 

But  'neath  yon  crimson  tree, 
Lover  to  listening  maid  might  breathe  his  flame, 
Nor  mark,  within  its  roseate  canopy, 

Her  blush  of  maiden  shame. 

Oh,  Autumn  !  why  so  soon 
Depart  the  hues  that  make  thy  forests  glad  ; 
Thy  gentle  wind  and  thy  fair  sunny  noon, 

And  leave  thee  wild  and  sad  ! 


174 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Ah  !  'twere  a  lot  too  blessed 
Forever  in  thy  colored  shades  to  stray ; 
Amid  the  kisses  of  the  soft  southwest 

To  rove  and  dream  for  aye  ; 

And  leave  the  vain  low  strife 
That  makes  men  mad — the  tug  for  wealth  and 
power, 

The  passions  and  the  cares  that  wither  life, 
And  waste  its  little  hour. 


A  WINTER  PIECE. 


The  time  has  been  that  these  wild  solitudes, 
Yet  beautiful  as  wild— were  trod  by  me 
Oftener  than  now  ;  and  when  the  ills  of  life 
Had  chafed  my  spirit — when  the  unsteady  pulse 
Beat  with  strange  flutterings — I  would  wander 
forth 

And  seek  the  woods.    The  sunshine  on  my  path 
Was  to  me  as  a  friend.    The  swelling  hills, 
The  quiet  dells  retiring  far  between, 
With  gentle  invitation  to  explore 
Their  windings,  were  a  calm  society 
That  talked  with  me  and  soothed  me.  Then 
the  chant 

Of  birds,  and  chime  of  brooks,  and  soft  caress 
Of  the  fresh  sylvan  air,  made  me  forget 
The  thoughts  that  broke  my  peace,  and  I  began 
To  gather  simples  by  the  fountain's  brink, 
And  lose  myself  in  day:dreams.    While  I  stood 
In  Nature's  loneliness,  I  was  with  one 
With  whom  I  early  grew  familiar,  one 
Who  never  had  a  frown  for  me,  whose  voice 


i76 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Never  rebuked  me  for  the  hours  I  stole 
From  cares  I  loved  not,  but  of  which  the  world 
Deems  highest,  to  converse  with  her.  When 
shrieked 

The  bleak  November  winds,  and  smote  the 
woods, 

And  the  brown  fields  were  herbless,  and  the 
shades, 

That  met  above  the  merry  rivulet, 

Were  spoiled,  I  sought,  I  loved  them  still, — 

they  seemed 
Like  old  companions  in  adversity. 
Still  there  was  beauty  in  my  walks  ;  the  brook, 
Bordered  with  sparkling  frost-work,  was  as  gay 
As  with  its  fringe  of  summer  flowers.  Afar, 
The  village  with  its  spires,  the  path  of  streams, 
And  dim  receding  valleys,  hid  before 
By  interposing  trees,  lay  visible 
Through  the  bare  grove,  and  my  familiar  haunts 
Seemed  new  to  me.    Nor  was  I  slow  to  come 
Among  them,  when  the  clouds,  from  their  still 

skirts, 

Had  shaken  down  on  earth  the  feathery  snow, 
And  all  was  white.    The  pure  keen  air  abroad, 
Albeit  it  breathed  no  scent  of  herb,  nor  heard 
Love-call  of  bird  nor  merry  hum  of  bee, 
Was  not  the  air  of  death.     Bright  mosses  crept 
Over  the  spotted  trunks,  and  the  close  buds, 
That  lay  along  the  boughs,  instinct  with  life, 
Patient,  and  waiting  the  soft  breath  of  Spring, 


A   WINTER  PIECE, 


177 


Feared  not  the  piercing  spirit  of  the  North. 
The  snow-bird  twittered  on  the  beechen  bough, 
And  'neath  the  hemlock,  whose  thick  branches 
bent 

Beneath  its  bright  cold  burden,  and  kept  dry 
A  circle,  on  the  earth,  of  withered  leaves, 
The  partridge  found  a  shelter.    Through  the 
snow 

The  rabbit  sprang  away.    The  lighter  track 
Of  fox,  and  the  racoon's  broad  path  were  there, 
Crossing  each  other.    From  his  hollow  tree, 
The  squirrel  was  abroad,  gathering  the  nuts 
Just  fallen,  that  asked  the  winter  cold  and  sway 
Of  winter  blast,  to  shake  them  from  their  hold. 

But  Winter  has  yet  brighter  scenes, — he  boasts 
Splendors   beyond     what  gorgeous  Summer 
knows  ; 

Or  Autumn,  with  his  many  fruits,  and  woods 
All  flushed  with  many  hues.     Come,  when  the 
rains 

Have  glazed  the  snow,  and  clothed  the  trees 
with  ice  ; 

While  the  slant  sun  of  February  pours 
Into  the  bowers  a  flood  of  light.    Approach  ! 
The  incrusted  surface  shall  upbear  thy  steps, 
And  the  broad  arching  portals  of  the  grove 
Welcome   thy    entering.    Look  !   the  massy 
trunks 

Are  cased  in  the  pure  crystal  ;  each  light  spray, 

Nodding  and  tinkling  in  the  breath  of  heaven, 
12 


i78 


BR  YA  NT  '5  POEMS. 


Is  studded  with  its  trembling  water-drops, 
That  stream  with  rainbow  radiance   as  they 
move. 

But  round  the  parent  stem  the  long  low  boughs 
Bend,  in  a  glittering  ring,  and  arbors  hide 
The  glassy  floor.    Oh  !  you  might  deem  the 
spot, 

The  spacious  cavern  of  some  virgin  mine, 
Deep  in  the  womb  of  earth — where  the  gems 
grow, 

And  diamonds  put  forth  radiant  rods  and  bud 
With  amethyst  and  topaz — and  the  place 
Lit  up,  most  royally,  with  the  pure  beam 
That  dwells  in  them.     Or  haply  the  vast  hall 
Of  fairy  palace,  that  outlasts  the  night, 
And  fades  not  in  the  glory  of  the  sun  ; — 
Where  crystal  columns  send  forth  slender  shafts 
And  crossing  arches  ;  and  fantastic  aisles 
Wind  from  the  sight  in  brightness,  and  are  lost 
Among  the  crowded  pillars.   Raise  thine  eye, — 
Thou  seest  no  cavern  roof,  no  palace  vault ; 
There  the  blue  sky  and  the  white  drifting  cloud 
Look  in.    Again  the  wildered  fancy  dreams 
Of  spouting  fountains,  frozen  as  they  rose, 
And  fixed,  with  all  their  branching  jets,  in  air 
And  all  their  sluices  sealed.    All,  all  is  light ; 
Light  without  shade.    But  all  shall  pass  away 
With  the  next   sun.    From  numberless  vast 
trunks, 

Loosened,  the  crashing  ice  shall  make  a  sound 


A   WINTER  PIECE. 


179 


Like  the  far  roar  of  rivers,  and  the  eve 
Shall  close  o'er  the  brown  woods  as  it  was 
wont. 

And  it  is  pleasant,  when  the  noisy  streams 
Are  just  set  free,  and  milder  suns  melt  off 
The  plashy  snow,  save  only  the  firm  drift 
In  the  deep  glen  or  the  close  shade  of  pines, — 
Tis  pleasant  to  behold  the  wreaths  of  smoke 
Roll  up  among  the  maples  of  the  hill, 
Where  the   shrill   sound   of  youthful  voices 
wakes 

The  shriller  echo,  as  the  clear  pure  lymph, 
That  from  the  wounded  trees,  in  twinkling 
drops, 

Falls,  'mid  the  golden  brightness  of  the  morn, 
Is  gathered  in  with  brimming  pails,  and  oft, 
Wielded  by  sturdy  hands,  the  stroke  of  ax 
Makes  the  woods  ring.    Along  the  quiet  air, 
Come  and  float  calmly  off  the  soft  light  clouds, 
Such  as  you  see  in  summer,  and  the  winds 
Scarce  stir  the  branches.     Lodged  in  sunny 
cleft, 

Where  the  cold  breezes  come  not,  blooms  alone 
The  little  wind-flower,  whose  just  opened  eye 
Is  blue  as  the  spring  heaven  it  gazes  at — 
Startling  the  loiterer  in  the  naked  groves 
With  unexpected  beauty,  for  the  time 
Of  blossoms  and  green  leaves  is  yet  afar. 
And  ere  it  comes,  the  encountering  winds  shall 
oft 


(So 


BRYANT'S  POEMS, 


Muster  their  wrath  again,  and  rapid  clouds 
Shade  heaven,  and  bounding  on  the  frozen  earth 
Shall  fall  their  volleyed  stores,  rounded  like  hail. 
And  white  like  snow,  and  the  loud  North  again 
Shall  buffet  the  vexed  forests  in  his  rage. 


"  OH  FAIREST  OF  THE  RURAL 
MAIDS." 


Oh  fairest  of  the  rural  maids  ! 
Thy  birth  was  in  the  forest  shades  ; 
Green  boughs,  and  glimpses  of  the  sky, 
Were  all  that  met  thy  infant  eye. 

Thy  sports,  thy  wanderings,  when  a  child. 
Were  ever  in  the  sylvan  wild  ; 
And  all  the  beauty  of  the  place 
Is  in  thy  heart  and  on  thy  face. 

The  twilight  of  the  trees  and  rocks 
Is  in  the  light  shade  of  thy  locks  ; 
Thy  step  is  as  the  wind,  that  weaves 
Its  playful  way  among  the  leaves. 

Thy  eyes  are  springs,  in  whose  serene 
And  silent  waters  heaven  is  seen  ; 
Their  lashes  are  the  herbs  that  look 
On  their  young  figures  in  the  brook. 

The  forest  depths,  by  foot  unpressed, 
Are  not  more  sinless  than  thy  breast ; 
The  holy  peace  that  fills  the  air 
Of  those  calm  solitudes,  is  there. 


THE  DISINTERRED  WARRIOR. 


Gather  him  to  his  grave  again, 

And  solemnly  and  softly  lay, 
Beneath  the  verdure  of  the  plain, 

The  warrior's  scattered  bones  away. 
Pay  the  deep  reverence,  taught  of  old, 

The  homage  of  man's  heart  to  death  ; 
Nor  dare  to  trifle  with  the  mould 

Once  hallowed  by  the  Almighty's  breath. 

The  soul  hath  quickened  every  part — 

That  remnant  of  a  martial  brow, 
Those  ribs  that  held  the  mighty  heart, 

That  strong  arm — strong  no  longer  now. 
Spare  them,  each  mouldering  relic  spare, 

Of  God's  own  image,  let  them  rest, 
Till  not  a  trace  shall  speak  of  where 

The  awful  likeness  was  impressed. 

For  he  was  fresher  from  the  hand 

That  formed  of  earth  the  human  face, 

And  to  the  elements  did  stand 
In  nearer  kindred  than  our  race. 


THE  DISINTERRED  WARRIOR, 


In  many  a  flood  to  madness  tossed, 
In  many  a  storm  has  been  his  path  ; 

He  hid  him  not  from  heat  or  frost, 
But  met  them,  and  defied  their  wrath. 

Then  they  were  kind — the  forests  here, 

Rivers,  and  stiller  waters  paid 
A  tribute  to  the  net  and  spear 

Of  the  red  ruler  of  the  shade. 
Fruits  on  the  woodland  branches  lay, 

Roots  in  the  shaded  soil  below, 
The  stars  looked  forth  to  teach  his  way, 

The  still  earth  warned  him  of  the  foe. 

A  noble  race  !  but  they  are  gone, 

With  their  old  forests  wide  and  deep, 
And  we  have  built  our  homes  upon 

Fields  where  their  generations  sleep. 
Their  fountains  slake  our  thirst  at  noon, 

Upon  their  fields  our  harvest  waves, 
Our  lovers  woo  beneath  their  moon — 

Ah,  let  us  spare,  at  least,  their  graves 


THE  GREEK  BOY. 


GONE  are  the  glorious  Greeks  of  old, 

Glorious  in  mien  and  mind  ; 
Their  bones  are  mingled  with  the  mould, 

Their  dust  is  on  the  wind  ; 
The  forms  they  hewed  from  living  stone, 
Survive  the  waste  of  years,  alone, 
And  scattered  with  their  ashes,  show 
What  greatness  perished  long  ago. 

Yet  fresh  the  myrtles  there — the  springs 

Gush  brightly  as  of  yore  ; 
Flowers  blossom  from  the  dust  of  kings, 

As  many  an  age  before. 
There  Nature  moulds  as  nobly  now, 
As  e'er  of  old,  the  human  brow  ; 
And  copies  still  the  martial  form 
That  braved  Platsea's  battle  storm. 

Boy !  thy  first  looks  were  taught  to  seek 
Their  Heaven  in  Hellas'  skies  ; 

Her  airs  have  tinged  thy  dusky  cheeky 
Her  sunshine  lit  thine  eyes  ; 


THE  GREEK  BOY. 


t85 


Thine  ears  have  drunk  the  woodland  strains 
Heard  by  old  poets,  and  thy  veins 
Swell  with  the  blood  of  demigods, 
That  slumber  in  thy  country's  sods. 

Now  is  thy  nation  free — though  late— 

Thy  elder  brethren  broke — 
Broke,  ere  thy  spirit  felt  its  weight, 

The  intolerable  yoke. 
And  Greece,  decayed,  dethroned,  doth  see 
Her  youth  renewed  in  such  as  thee  ; 
A  shoot  of  that  old  vine  that  made 
The  nations  silent  in  its  shade. 


i 


"  UPON  THE   MOUNTAIN'S  DISTANT 
HEAD." 


UPON  the  mountain's  distant  head, 
With  trackless  snows  forever  white, 

Where  all  is  still,  and  cold,  and  dead, 
Late  shines  the  day's  departing  light. 

But  far  below  those  icy  rocks, — 

The  vales,  in  summer  bloom  arrayed, 

Woods  full  of  birds,  and  fields  of  flocks, 
Are  dim  with  mist  and  dark  with  shade. 

'Tis  thus,  from  warm  and  kindly  hearts 
And  eyes  where  generous  meanings  burn, 

Earliest  the  light  of  life  departs, 
But  lingers  with  the  cold  and  stern. 


SONNET— WILLIAM  TELL. 


CHAINS  may  subdue  the  feeble  spirit,  but  thee, 
TELL,  of  the  iron  heart !  they  could  not  tame ; 
For  thou  wert  of  the  mountains  ;  they  pro- 
claim 

The  everlasting  creed  of  liberty. 
That  creed  is  written  on  the  untrampled  snow. 
Thundered  by  torrents  which  no  power  can 
hold, 

Save  that  of  God,  when  he  sqnds  forth  his 
cold, 

And  breathed  by  winds  that  through  the  free 
heaven  blow. 

Thou,  while  thy  prison  walls  were  dark  around, 
Didst  meditate  the  lesson  Nature  taught, 
And  to  thy  brief  captivity  was  brought 

A  vision  of  thy  Switzerland  unbound. 

The  bitter  cup  they  mingled,  strengthened  thee 

For  the  great  work  to  set  thy  country  free. 


TO  THE  RIVER  ARVE. 


(SUPPOSED  to  be  written  at  a  hamlet  near  the  foot 

OF  MONT  BLANC.) 


NOT  from  the  sands  or  cloven  rocks, 

Thou  rapid  Arve  !  thy  waters  flow  ; 
Nor  earth  within  its  bosom,  locks 

Thy  dark  unfathomed  wells  below. 
Thy  springs  are  in  the  cloud,  thy  stream 

Begins  to  move  and  murmur  first 
Where  ice-peaks  feel  the  noonday  beam, 

Or  rain-storms  on  the  glacier  burst. 

Born  where  the  thunder  and  the  blast, 

And  morning's  earliest  light  are  born, 
Thou  rushest  swoln,  and  loud,  and  fast, 

By  these  low  homes,  as  if  in  scorn  : 
Yet  humbler  springs  yield  purer  waves  ; 

And  brighter,  glassier  streams  than  thine, 
Sent  up  from  earth's  unlighted  caves, 

With  heaven's  own  beam  and  image  shine. 


TO  THE  RIVER  ARVE. 

Yet  stay  !  for  here  are  flowers  and  trees  ; 

Warm  rays  on  cottage  roofs  are  here, 
And  laugh  of  girls,  and  hum  of  bees — - 

Here  linger  till  thy  waves  are  clear. 
Thou  heedest  not — thou  hastest  on  ; 

From  steep  to  steep  thy  torrent  falls, 
Till,  mingling  with  the  mighty  Rhone, 

It  rests  beneath  Geneva's  walls. 

Rush  on — but  were  there  one  with  me 

That  loved  me,  I  would  light  my  hearth 
Here,  where  with  God's  own  majesty 

Are  touched  the  features  of  the  earth. 
By  these  old  peaks,  white,  high,  and  vast, 

Still  rising  as  the  tempests  beat, 
Here  would  I  dwell,  and  sleep,  at  last, 

Among  the  blossoms  at  their  feet. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  THE  ENTRANCE  TO 
A  WOOD. 


STRANGER,  if  thou  hast  learned  a  truth  which 
needs 

No  school  of  long  experience,  that  the  world 
Is  full  of  guilt  and  misery,  and  hast  seen 
Enough  of  all  its  sorrows,  crimes,  and  cares, 
To  tire  thee  of  it,  enter  this  wild  wood 
And  view  the  haunts  of  Nature.  The  calm  shade 
Shall  bring  a  kindred  calm,  and  the  sweet  breeze 
That  makes  the  green  leaves  dance,  shall  waft  a 
balm 

To  thy  sick  heart.  Thou  wilt  find  nothing  here 
Of  all  that  pained  thee  in  the  haunts  of  men 
And  made  thee  loathe  thy  life.  The  primal  curse 
Fell,  it  is  true,  upon  the  unsinning  earth, 
But  not  in  vengeance.  God  hath  yoked  to  Guilt 
Her  pale  tormentor,  Misery.  Hence,  these 
shades 

Are  still  the  abodes  of  gladness  ;  the  thick  roof 
Of  green  and  stirring  branches  is  alive 
And  musical  with  birds,  that  sing  and  sport 
In  wantonness  of  spirit ;  while  below 


INSCRIPTION  TO  A   WOOD.  191 


The  squirrel,  with  raised  paws  and  form  erect, 
Chirps  merrily.   Throngs  of  insects  in  the  shade 
Try  their  thin  wings  and  dance  in  the  warm  beam 
That  waked  them  into  life.  Even  the  green  trees 
Partake  the  deep  contentment ;  as  they  bend 
To  the  soft  winds,  the  sun  from  the  blue  sky 
Looks  in  and  sheds  a  blessing  on  the  scene. 
Scarce  less  the  cleft-born  wild-flower  seems  to 
enjoy 

Existence,  than  the  winged  plunderer 
That  sucks  its  sweets.    The  massy  rocks  them- 
selves, 

And  the  old  and  ponderous  trunks  of  prostrate 
trees 

That  lead  from  knoll  to  knoll  a  causey  rude 
Or  bridge  the  sunken  brook,  and  their  dark 
roots, 

With  all  their  earth  upon  them,  twisting  high, 
Breathe  fixed  tranquillity.    The  rivulet 
Sends  forth  glad  sounds,  and  tripping  o'er  its 
bed 

Of  pebbly  sands,  or  leaping  down  the  rocks, 
Seems,  with  continuous  laughter,  to  rejoice 
In  its  own  being.     Softly  tread  the  marge, 
Lest  from  her  midway  perch  thou  scare  the 
wren 

That  dips  her  bill  in  water.    The  cool  wind, 
That  stirs  the  stream  in  play,  shall  come  to  thee; 
Like  one  that  loves  thee  nor  will  let  thee  pass 
Ungreeted,  and  shall  give  its  light  embrace. 


"WHEN  THE   FIRMAMENT  QUIVERS 
WITH  DAYLIGHT'S  YOUNG 
BEAM.'5 


WHEN  the  firmament  quivers  with  daylight's 
young  beam, 
And  the   woodlands  awaking  burst  into  a 
hymn, 

And  the  glow  of  the  sky  blazes  back  from  the 
stream, — 

How  the  bright  ones  of  heaven  in  the  bright- 
ness grow  dim  ! 

Oh,  'tis  sad,  in  that  moment  of  glory  and  song, 
To  see,  while  the  hill-tops  are  waiting  the  sun, 

The  glittering  >and  that  kept  watch  all  night  long 
O'er  Love  and  o'er  Slumber,  go  out  one  by 
one. 

Till  the  circle  of  ether,  deep,  ruddy,  and  vast, 
Scarce  glimmers  with  one  of  the  train  that  were 
there ; 

And  their  leader  the  day-star,  the  brightest  and 
last, 

Twinkles  faintly  and  fades  in  that  desert  of  air. 


WHEN  THE  FIRMAMENT  QUIVERS.  193 

Thus,  Oblivion,  from  midst  of  whose  shadow  we 
came, 

Steals  o'er  us  again  when  life's  twilight  is 
gone  ; 

And  the  crowd  of  bright  names,  in  the  heaven 
of  fame, 

Grow  pale  and  are  quenched  as  the  years  has- 
ten on. 

Let  them  fade — but  we'll  pray  that  the  age,  in 
whose  flight, 
Of  ourselves  and  our  friends  the  remembrance 
shall  die, 

May  rise  o'er  the  world,  with  the  gladness  and 
light 

Of  the  dawn  that  effaces  the  stars  from  the 
sky. 


A   SCENE   ON  THE  BANKS   OF  THE 
HUDSON. 


COOL  shades  and  dews  are  round  my  way, 

And  silence  of  the  early  day  ; 

'Mid  the  dark  rocks  that  watch  his  bed, 

Glitters  the  mighty  Hudson  spread, 

Unrippled,  save  by  drops  that  fall 

From  shrubs  that  fringe  his  mountain  wall ; 

And  o'er  the  clear  still  water  swells 

The  music  of  the  Sabbath  bells. 

All,  save  this  little  nook  of  land 
Circled  with  trees,  on  which  I  stand  ; 
All,  save  that  line  of  hills  which  lie 
Suspended  in  the  mimic  sky — 
Seems  a  blue  void,  above,  below, 
Through  which  the  white  clouds  come  and  go  ; 
And  from  the  green  world's  farthest  steep 
I  gaze  into  the  airy  deep. 

Loveliest  of  lovely  things  are  they, 
On  earth,  that  soonest  pass  away. 


BANKS  OF  THE  HUDSON, 


The  rose  that  lives  its  little  hour, 
Is  prized  beyond  the  sculptured  flower. 
Even  love,  long  tried  and  cherished  Ion; 
Becomes  more  tender  and  more  strong, 
At  thought  of  that  insatiate  grave 
From  which  its  yearnings  cannot  save. 

River  !  in  this  still  hour  thou  hast 
Too  much  of  heaven  on  earth  to  last ; 
Nor  long  may  thy  still  waters  lie, 
An  image  of  the  glorious  sky. 
Thy  fate  and  mine  are  not  repose, 
And  ere  another  evening  close, 
Thou  to  thy  tides  shall  turn  again, 
And  I  to  seek  the  crowd  of  men. 


THE  WEST  WIND. 


Beneath  the  forest's  skirts  I  rest, 

Whose  branching  pines  rise  dark  and  high, 

And  hear  the  breezes  of  the  West 
Among  the  threaded  foliage  sigh. 

Sweet  Zephyr  !  why  that  sound  of  wo  ? 

Is  not  thy  home  among  the  flowers  ? 
Do  not  the  bright  June  roses  blow, 

To  meet  thy  kiss  at  morning  hours  ? 

And  lo  !  thy  glorious  realm  outspread — 
Yon  stretching  valleys,  green  and  gay, 

And  yon  free  hill-tops,  o'er  whose  head 
The  loose  white  clouds  are  borne  away. 

And  there  the  full  broad  river  runs, 

And  many  a  fount  wells  fresh  and  sweet, 

To  cool  thee  when  the  mid-day  suns 

Have  made  thee  faint  beneath  their  heat. 


THE  WEST  WIND. 


197 


Thou  wind  of  joy,  and  youth,  and  love  ; 

Spirit  of  the  new  wakened  year  ! 
The  sun  in  his  blue  realm  above 

Smooths  a  bright  path  when  thou  art  here. 

In  lawns  the  murmuring  bee  is  heard, 
The  wooing  ring-dove  in  the  shade; 

On  thy  soft  breath,  the  new-fledged  bird 
Takes  wing,  half  happy,  half  afraid. 

Ah  !  thou  art  like  our  wayward  race  ; — 

When  not  a  shade  of  pain  or  ill 
Dims  the  bright  smile  of  Nature's  face, 

Thou  lov'st  to  sigh  and  murmur  still. 


TO  A  MOSQUITO. 


FAIR  insect  !  that,  with  threadlike  legs  spread 
out, 

And  blood-extracting  bill  and  filmy  wing, 
Dost  murmur,  as  thou  slowly  sail'st  about, 

In  pitiless  ears  full  many  a  plaintive  thing, 
And  tell  how  little  our  large  veins  should  bleed, 
Would  we  but  yield  them  to  thy  bitter  need. 

Unwillingly,  I  own,  and,  what  is  worse, 
Full  angrily  men  hearken  to  thy  plaint, 

Thou  gettest  many  a  brush,  and  many  a  curse, 
For  saying  thou  art  gaunt,  and  starved,  and 
faint : 

Even  the  old  beggar,  while  he  asks  for  food, 
Would  kill  thee,  hapless  stranger,  if  he  could. 

I  call  thee  stranger,  for  the  town,  I  ween, 
Has  not  the  honor  of  so  proud  a  birth, 
Thou  com'st  from  Jersey  meadows,  fresh  and 
green, 

The  offspring  of  the  gods,  though  born  on 
earth  ; 


TO  A  MOSQUITO. 


199 


For  Titan  was  thy  sire,  and  fair  was  she, 
The  ocean  nymph,  that  nursed  thy  infancy. 

Beneath  the  rushes  was  thy  cradle  swung, 

And  when,  at  length,  thy  gauzy  wings  grew 
strong, 

Abroad  to  gentle  airs  their  folds  were  flung, 
Rose  in  the  sky  and  bore  thee  soft  along  : 
The  south  wind  breathed  to  waft  thee  on  thy 
way, 

And  danced  and  shone  beneath  the  billowy  bay. 

And  calm,  afar,  the  city  spires  arose, — 

Thence  didst  thou  hear  the  distant  hum  of 
men, 

And  as  its  grateful  odors  met  thy  nose, 

Didst  seem  to  smell  thy  native  marsh  again  ; 
Fair  lay  its  crowded  streets,  and  at  the  sight 
Thy  tiny  song  grew  shriller  with  delight. 

At  length  thy  pinions  fluttered  in  Broadway — 
Ah,  there  were  fairy  steps,  and  white  necks 
kissed 

By  wanton  airs,  and  eyes  whose  killing  ray 
Shone  through  the  snowy  veils  like  stars 
through  mist  ; 
And  fresh  as  morn,  on  many  a  cheek  and  chin, 
Bloomed  the  bright  blood  through  the  transpar- 
ent skin. 


200 


BRYANT'S  POEMS, 


Oh,  these  were  sights  to  touch  an  anchorite  ! 

What  !  do  I  hear  thy  slender  voice  complain  ? 
Thou  wailest,  when  I  talk  of  beauty's  light, 

As  if  it  brought  the  memory  of  pain  : 
Thou  art  a  wayward  being — well  —  come  near, 
And  pour  thy  tale  of  sorrow  in  my  ear. 

What  say'st  thou  —  slanderer  !  —  rouge  makes 
thee  sick  ? 
And  China  bloom  at  best  is  sorry  food  ? 
And  Rowland's  Kalydor,  if  laid  on  thick, 

Poisons  the  thirsty  wretch  that  bores  for 
blood  ? 

Go  !  'twas  a  just  reward  that  met  thy  crime — 
But  shun  the  sacrilege  another  time. 

That  bloom  was  made  to  look  at,  not  to  touch, 
To  worship,  not  approach,  that  radiant  white  ; 

And  well  might  sudden  vengeance  light  on  such 
As  dared,  like  thee,  most  impiously  to  bite. 

Thou  shouldst  have  gazed  at  distance  and  ad- 
mired, 

Murmured  thy  adoration  and  retired. 

Thou'rt  welcome  to  the  town — but  why  come 
here 

To  bleed  a  brother  poet,  gaunt  like  thee  ? 
Alas  !  the  little  blood  I  have  is  dear, 

And  thin  will  be  the  banquet  drawn  from  me. 
Look  round — the  pale-eyed  sisters  in  my  cell, 
Thy  old  acquaintance,  Song  and  Famine,  dwell. 


TO  A  MOSQUITO. 


20I 


Try  some  plump  alderman,  and  suck  the  blood 
Enriched  by  generous  wine  and  costly  meat  ; 

On  well-filled  skins,  sleek  as  thy  native  mud, 
Fix  thy  light  pump  and  press  thy  freckled  feet : 

Go  to  the  men  for  whom,  in  ocean's  halls, 

The  oyster  breeds,  and  the  green  turtle  sprawls. 

There  corks  are  drawn,  and  the  red  vintage  flows 
To  fill  the  swelling  veins  for  thee,  and  now 

The  ruddy  cheek  and  now  the  ruddier  nose 
Shall  tempt  thee,  as  thou  flittest  round  the 
brow  ; 

And,  when  the  hour  of  sleep  its  quiet  brings, 
No  angry  hand  shall  rise  to  brush  thy  wings. 


"I  BROKE  THE   SPELL  THAT  HELD 
ME  LONG." 


I  BROKE  the  spell  that  held  me  long, 

The  dear,  dear  witchery  of  song. 

I  said,  the  poet's  idle  lore 

Shall  waste  my  prime  of  years  no  more, 

For  Poetry,  though  heavenly  born, 

Consorts  with  poverty  and  scorn. 

I  broke  the  spell — nor  deemed  its  power 

Could  fetter  me  another  hour. 

Ah,  thoughtless  !  how  could  I  forget 

Its  causes  were  around  me  yet  ? 

For  wheresoe'er  I  looked,  the  while, 

Was  Nature's  everlasting  smile. 

Still  came  and  lingered  on  my  sight 

Of  flowers  and  streams  the  bloom  and  light, 

And  glory  of  the  stars  and  sun  ; — 

And  these  and  poetry  are  one. 

They,  ere  the  world  had  held  me  long, 

Recalled  me  to  the  love  of  song. 


THE  CONJUNCTION  OF  JUPITER  AND 
VENUS. 


I  WOULD  not  always  reason.    The  straight 
path 

Wearies  us  with  its  never-varying  lines, 
And  we  grow  melancholy.    I  would  make 
Reason  my  guide,  but  she  should  sometimes  sit 
Patiently  by  the  way-side,  while  I  traced 
The  mazes  of  the  pleasant  wilderness 
Around  me.    She  should  be  my  counsellor, 
But  not  my  tyrant.    For  the  spirit  needs 
Impulses  from  a  deeper  source  than  hers, 
And  there  are  motions,  in  the  mind  of  man, 
That  she  must  look  upon  with  awe.    I  bow 
Reverently  to  her  dictates,  but  not  less 
Hold  to  the  fair  illusions  of  old  time — 
Illusions  that  shed  brightness  over  life, 
And  glory  over  nature.    Look,  even  now, 
Where  two  bright  planets  in  the  twilight  meet, 
Upon  the  saffron  heaven, — the  imperial  star 
Of  Jove,  and  she  that  from  her  radiant  urn 
Pours  forth  the  light  of  love.     Let  me  believe, 
Awhile,  that  they  are  met  for  ends  of  good, 


204 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Amid  the  evening  glory,  to  confer 
Of  men  and  their  affairs,  and  to  shed  down 
Kind  influence.     Lo  !   their  orbs  burn  more 
bright, 

And  shake  out  softer  fires  !  The  great  earth  feels 
The  gladness  and  the  quiet  of  the  time. 
Meekly  the  mighty  river,  that  infolds 
This  mighty  city,  smooths  his  front,  and  far 
Glitters  and  burns  even  to  the  rocky  base 
Of  the  dark  heights  that  bound  him  to  the  west ; 
And  a  deep  murmur,  from  the  many  streets, 
Rises  like  a  thanksgiving.     Put  we  hence 
Dark  and  sad  thoughts  awhile — there's  time  for 
them 

Hereafter — on  the  morrow  we  will  meet, 
With  melancholy  looks,  to  tell  our  griefs, 
And  make  each  other  wretched  ;  this  calm  hour, 
This  balmy,  blessed  evening,  we  will  give 
To  cheerful  hopes  and  dreams  of  happy  days, 
Born  of  the  meeting  of  those  glorious  stars. 

Enough  of  drought  has  parched  the  year,  and 
scared 

The  land  with  dread  of  famine.    Autumn,  yet, 
Shall  make  men  glad  with  unexpected  fruits. 
The  dog-star  shall  shine  harmless  ;  genial  days 
Shall  softly  glide  away  into  the  keen 
And  wholesome  cold  of  winter  ;  he  that  fears 
The  pestilence,  shall  gaze  on  those  pure  beams, 
And  breathe,  with  confidence,  the  quiet  air. 


JUPITER  AND  VENUS. 


Emblems  of  power  and  beauty  !  well  may  they 
Shine  brightest  on  our  borders,  and  withdraw 
Toward  the  great  Pacific,  marking  out 
The  path  of  empire.    Thus,  in  our  own  land, 
Erelong,  the  better  Genius  of  our  race, 
Having  encompassed  earth,  and  tamed  its  tribes, 
Shall  sit  him  down  beneath  the  farthest  West, 
By  the  shore  of  that  calm  ocean,  and  look  back 
On  realms  made  happy. 

Light  the  nuptial  torch, 
And  say  the  glad,  yet  solemn  rite,  that  knits 
The  youth  and  maiden.    Happy  days  to  them 
That  wed  this  evening  ! — a  long  life  of  love, 
And  blooming  sons  and  daughters  !  Happy 
they 

Born  at  this  hour, — for  they  shall  see  an  age 
Whiter  and  holier  than  the  past,  and  go 
Late  to  their  graves.     Men  shall  wear  softer 
hearts, 

And  shudder  at  the  butcheries  of  war, 
As  now  at  other  murders. 

Hapless  Greece  ! 
Enough  of  blood  has  wet  thy  rocks,  and  stained 
Thy  rivers  ;  deep*enough  thy  chains  have  worn 
Their  links  into  thy  flesh  ;  the  sacrifice 
Of  thy  pure  maidens,  and  thy  innocent  babes, 
And  reverend  priests,  has  expiated  all 
Thy  crimes  of  old.    In  yonder  mingling  lights 


2o6 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


There  is  an  omen  of  good  days  for  thee. 
Thou  shalt  arise  from  'midst  the  dust  and  sit 
Again  among  the  nations.    Thine  own  arm 
Shall  yet  redeem  thee.    Not  in  wars  like  thine 
The  world  takes  part.    Be  it  a  strife  of  kings, — ■ 
Despot  with  despot  battling  for  a  throne, — 
And  Europe  shall  be  stirred  throughout  her 
realms, 

Nations  shall  put  on  harness,  and  shall  fall 
Upon  each  other,  and  in  all  their  bounds 
The  wailing  of  the  childless  shall  not  cease. 
Thine  is  a  war  for  liberty,  and  thou 
Must  fight  it  single-handed.    The  old  world 
Looks  coldly  on  the  murderers  of  thy  race, 
And  leaves  thee  to  the  struggle  ;  and  the  new, — 
I  fear  me  thou  couldst  tell  a  shameful  tale 
Of  fraud  and  lust  of  gain  ; — thy  treasury  drained. 
And  Missolonghi  fallen.    Yet  thy  wrongs 
Shall  put  new  strength  into  thy  heart  and  hand, 
And  God  and  thy  good  sword  shall  yet  work 
out, 

For  thee,  a  terrible  deliverance. 


JUNE. 


I  GAZED  upon  the  glorious  sky 

And  the  green  mountains  round  ; 
And  thought,  that  when  I  came  to  lie 

Within  the  silent  ground, 
'Twere  pleasant;  that  in  flowery  June, 
When  brooks  sent  up  a  cheerful  tune, 

And  groves  a  joyous  sound, 
The  sexton's  hand,  my  grave  to  make, 
The  rich,  green  mountain  turf  should  break. 

A  cell  within  the  frozen  mould, 
A  coffin  borne  through  sleet, 

And  icy  clods  above  it  rolled, 

While  fierce  the  tempests  beat — 

Away  ! — I  will  not  think  of  these — 

Blue  be  the  sky  and  soft  the  breeze, 
Earth  green  beneath  the  feet, 

And  be  the  damp  mould  gently  pressed 

Into  my  narrow  place  of  rest. 


2o8 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


There,  through  the  long,  long  summer  hours 

The  golden  light  should  lie, 
And  thick  young  herbs  and  groups  of  flower 

Stand  in  their  beauty  by. 
The  oriole  should  build  and  tell 
His  love-tale,  close  beside  my  cell  ; 

The  idle  butterfly 
Should  rest  him  there,  and  there  be  heard 
The  housewife-bee  and  humming-bird. 

And  what  if  cheerful  shouts,  at  noon, 

Come  from  the  village  sent, 
Or  songs  of  maids,  beneath  the  moon, 

With  fairy  laughter  blent  ? 
And  what  if,  in  the  evening  light, 
Betrothed  lovers  walk  in  sight 

Of  my  low  monument  ? 
I  would  the  lovely  scene  around 
Might  know7  no  sadder  sight  nor  sound. 

I  know,  I  know  I  should  not  see 

The  season's  glorious  show, 
Nor  would  its  brightness  shine  for  me, 

Nor  its  wild  music  flow ; 
But  if,  around  my  place  of  sleep, 
The  friends  I  love  should  come  to  weep, 

They  might  not  haste  to  go. 
Soft  airs,  and  song,  and  light,  and  bloom, 
Should  keep  them  lingering  by  my  tomb. 


JUNE. 


209 


These  to  their  softened  hearts  should  bear 
The  thought  of  what  has  been, 

And  speak  of  one  who  cannot  share 
The  gladness  of  the  scene  ; 

Whose  part,  in  all  the  pomp  that  fills 

The  circuit  of  the  summer  hills, 
Is — that  his  grave  is  green  ; 

And  deeply  would  their  hearts  rejoice 

To  hear,  again,  his  living  voice, 
14 


THE  TWO  GRAVES. 


'TlS  a  bleak  wild  hill, — but  green  and  bright 
In  the  summer  warmth,  and  the  mid-day  light  ; 
There's  the  hum  of  the  bee  and  the  chirp  of  the 
wren, 

And  the  dash  of  the  brook  from  the  alder  glen  ; 
There's  the  sound  of  a  bell  from  thq  scattered 
flock, 

And  the  shade  of  the  beech  lies  cool  on  the  rock, 
And  fresh  from  the  west  is  the  free  wind's 
breath — 

There  is  nothing  here  that  speaks  of  death. 

Far  yonder,  where  orchards  and  gardens  lie, 
And  dwellings  cluster,  'tis  there  men  die. 
They  are  born,  they  die,  and  are  buried  near, 
Where  the  populous  grave-yard  lightens  the 
bier  ; 

For  strict  and  close  are  the  ties  that  bind 
In  death,  the  children  of  human  kind ; 
Yea,  stricter  and  closer  than  those  of  life, — 
>Tis  a  neighborhood  that  knows  no  strife. 


THE  TWO  GRAVES. 


211 


They  are  noiselessly  gathered — friend  and  foe — 
To  the  still  and  dark  assemblies  below  : 
Without  a  frown  or  a  smile  they  meet, 
Each  pale  and  calm  in  his  winding-sheet ; 
In  that  sullen  home  of  peace  and  gloom, 
Crowded,  like  guests  in  a  banquet-room. 

Yet  there  are  graves  in  this  lonely  spot, 
Two  humble  graves, — but  I  meet  them  not. 
I  have  seen  them, — eighteen  years  are  past, 
Since  I  found  their  place  in  the  brambles  last, — 
The  place  where,  fifty  winters  ago, 
An  aged  man  in  his  locks  of  snow, 
And  an  aged  matron,  withered  with  years, 
Were  solemnly  laid, — but  not  with  tears. 
For  none,  who  sat  by  the  light  of  their  hearth, 
Beheld  their  coffins  covered  with  earth  ; 
Their  kindred  were  far,  and  their  children  dead, 
When  the  funeral  prayer  was  coldly  said. 

Two  low  green  hillocks,  two  small  gray  stones, 
Rose  over  the  place  that  held  their  bones  \ 
But  the  grassy  hillocks  are  levelled  again, 
And  the  keenest  eye  might  search  in  vain, 
'Mong  briers,  and  ferns,  and  paths  of  sheep, 
For  the  spot  where  the  aged  couple  sleep. 

Yet  well  might  they  lay,  beneath  the  soil 
Of  this  lonely  spot,  that  man  of  toil, 


212 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


And  trench  the  strong  hard  mould  with  the 
spade, 

Where  never  before  a  grave  was  made  ; 
For  he  hewed  the  dark  old  woods  away, 
And  gave  the  virgin  fields  to  the  day, — 
And  the  gourd  and  the  bean,  beside  his  door, 
Bloomed    where    their    flowers  ne'er  opened 
before  ; 

And  the  maize  stood  up,  and  the  bearded  rye 
Bent  low  in  the  breath  of  an  unknown  sky. 

'Tis  said  that  when  life  is  ended  here, 
The  spirit  is  borne  to  a  distant  sphere  ; 
That  it  visits  its  earthly  home  no  more, 
Nor  looks  on  the  haunts  it  loved  before. 
But  why  should  the  bodiless  soul  be  sent 
Far  off,  to  a  long,  long  banishment  ? 
Talk  not  of  the  light  and  the  living  green  ! 
It  will  pine  for  the  dear  familiar  scene  ; 
It  will  yearn,  in  that  strange  bright  world,  to 
behold 

The  rock  and  the  stream  it  knew  of  old. 

'Tis  a  cruel  creed,  believe  it  not  ! 
Death  to  the  good  is  a  milder  lot. 
They  are  here, — they  are  here, — that  harmless 
pair, 

In  the  yellow  sunshine  and  flowing  air, 

In  the  light  cloud-shadows,  that  slowly  pass, 


THE  TWO  GRAVES, 


2! 


In  the  sounds  that  rise  from  the  murmurin 
grass. 

They  sit  where  their  humble  cottage  stood. 
They  walk  by  the  waving  edge  of  the  wood. 
And  list  to  the  long  accustomed  flow 
Of  the  brook  that  wets  the  rocks  below. 
Patient,  and  peaceful,  and  passionless, 
As  seasons  on  seasons  swiftly  press, 
They  watch,  and  wait,  and  linger  around, 
Till  the  day  when  their  bodies  shall  leave  th 
ground. 


THE  NEW  MOON. 


When,  as  the  gairish  day  is  done, 
Heaven  burns  with  the  descended  sun, 

Tis  passing  sweet  to  mark, 
Amid  that  flush  of  crimson  light, 
The  new  moon's  modest  bow  grow  bri 

As  earth  and  sky  grow  dark. 

Few  are  the  hearts  too  cold  to  feel 
A  thrill  of  gladness  o'er  them  steal, 

-  When  first  the  wandering  eye 
Sees  faintly,  in  the  evening  blaze, 
That  glimmering  curve  of  tender  rays 
Just  planted  in  the  sky. 

The  sight  of  that  young  crescent  bring; 
Thoughts  of  all  fair  and  youthful  thing 

The  hopes  of  early  years  ; 
And  childhood's  purity  and  grace, 
And  joys  that  like  a  rainbow  chase 

The  passing  shower  of  tears. 


THE  NEW  MOON. 


The  captive  yields  him  to  the  dream 
Of  freedom,  when  that  virgin  beam 

Comes  out  upon  the  air  ; 
And  painfully  the  sick  man  tries 
To  fix  his  dim  and  burning  eyes 

On  the  soft  promise  there. 

Most  welcome  to  the  lover's  sight, 
Glitters  that  pure,  emerging  light ; 

For  prattling  poets  say, 
That  sweetest  is  the  lovers'  walk, 
And  tenderest  is  their  murmured  talk, 

Beneath  its  gentle  ray. 

And  there  do  graver  men  behold 
A  type  of  errors,  loved  of  old, 

Forsaken  and  forgiven  ; 
And  thoughts  and  wishes  not  of  earth, 
Just  opening  in  their  early  birth, 

Like  that  new  light  in  heaven. 


THE  GLADNESS  OF  NATURE. 


Is  this  a  time  to  be  cloudy  and  sad, 

When  our  mother  Nature  laughs  around  ; 

When  even  the  deep  blue  heavens  look  glad, 
And  gladness  breathes  from  the  blossoming 
ground  ? 

There  are  notes  of  joy  from  the  hang-bird  and 
wren, 

And  the  gossip  of  swallows  through  all  the 
sky; 

The  ground-squirrel  gayly  chirps  by  his  den, 
And  the  wilding  bee  hums  merrily  by. 

The  clouds  are  at  play  in  the  azure  space, 

And  their  shadows  at  play  on  the  bright  green 
vale, 

And  here  they  stretch  to  the  frolic  chase, 
And  there  they  roll  on  the  easy  gale. 


THE  GLADNESS  OF  NATURE.  217 


There's  a  dance  of  leaves  in  that  aspen  bower, 

There's  a  titter  of  winds  in  that  beechen  tree, 
There's  a  smile  on  the  fruit,  and  a  smile  on  the 
flower, 

And  a  laugh  from  the  brook  that  runs  to  the 
sea. 

And  look  at  the  broad-faced  sun,  how  he  smiles 
On  the  dewy  earth  that  smiles  in  his  ray, 

On  the  leaping  waters  and  gay  young  isles  ; 
Ay,  look,  and  he'll  smile  thy  gloom  away. 


TO  THE  FRINGED  GENTIAN. 


THOU  blossom  bright  with  autumn  dew, 
And  colored  with  the  heaven's  own  blue, 
That  openest,  when  the  quiet  light 
Succeeds  the  keen  and  frosty  night. 

Thou  comest  not  when  violets  lean 

O'er  wandering  brooks  and  springs  unseen, 

Or  columbines,  in  purple  dressed, 

Nod  o'er  the  ground-bird's  hidden  nest. 

Thou  waitest  late,  and  com'st  alone, 
When  woods  are  bare  and  birds  are  flown, 
And  frosts  and  shortening  days  portend 
The  aged  year  is  near  his  end. 

Then  doth  thy  sweet  and  quiet  eye 
Look  through  its  fringes  to  the  sky, 
Blue — blue — as  if  that  sky  let  fall 
A  flower  from  its  cerulean  wall. 

I  would  that  thus,  when  I  shall  see 
The  hour  of  death  draw  near  to  me, 
Hope,  blossoming  within  my  heart, 
May  look  to  heaven  as  I  depart. 


"  INNOCENT  CHILD  AND  SNOW-WHITE 
FLOWER/' 


INNOCENT  child  and  snow-white  flower  ! 
Well  are  ye  paired  in  your  opening  hour. 
Thus  should  the  pure  and  the  lovely  meet, 
Stainless  with  stainless,  and  sweet  with  sweet. 

White  as  those  leaves,  just  blown  apart, 
Are  the  folds  of  thy  own  young  heart; 
Guilty  passion  and  cankering  care 
Never  have  left  their  traces  there. 

Artless  one  !  though  thou  gazest  now 
O'er  the  white  blossom  with  earnest  brow, 
Soon  will  it  tire  thy  childish  eye, 
Fair  as  it  is,  thou  wilt  throw  it  by. 

Throw  it  aside  in  thy  weary  hour. 
Throw  to  the  ground  the  fair  white  flower, 
Yet,  as  thy  tender  years  depart, 
Keep  that  white  and  innocent  heart. 


SONNET— MIDSUMMER. 


A  POWER  is  on  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 
From  which  the  vital  spirit  shrinks  afraid, 
And  shelters  him,  in  nooks  of  deepest  shade, 

From  the  hot  steam  and  from  the  fiery  glare. 

Look  forth  upon  the  earth — her  thousand  plants 
Are  smitten,  even  the  dark  sun-loving  maize 
Faints  in  the  field  beneath  the  torrid  blaze  ; 

The  herd  beside  the  shaded  fountain  pants  ; 

For  life  is  driven  from  all  the  landscape  brown  ; 
The  bird  has  sought  his  tree,  the  snake  his 
den, 

The  trout  floats  dead  in  the  hot  stream,  and 
men 

Drop  by  the  sun-stroke  in  the  populous  town  ; 
As  if  the  Day  of  Fire  had  dawned  and  sent 
Its  deadly  breath  into  the  firmament. 


SONNET— OCTOBER. 


Ay,   thou    art   welcome,   heaven's  delicious 
breath  ! 

When  woods  begin  to  wear  the  crimson  leaf, 
And  suns  grow  meek,  and  the  meek  suns 
grow  brief, 

And  the  year  smiles  as  it  draws  near  its  death. 
Wind  of  the  sunny  south  !  oh,  still  delay 

In  the  gay  woods  and  in  the  golden  air, 

Like  to  a  good  old  age  released  from  care, 
Journeying,  in  long  serenity,  away. 
In  such  a  bright,  late  quiet,  would  that  I 

Might  wear  out  life  like  thee,  'mid  bowers 
and  brooks, 

And  dearer  yet,  the  sunshine  of  kind  looks, 
And  music  of  kind  voices  ever  nigh  ; 
And  when  my  last  sand  twinkled  in  the  glass, 
Pass  silently  from  men,  as  thou  dost  pass. 


SONNET— NOVEMBER. 


Yet  one  smile  more,  departing,  distant  sun  ! 
One  mellow  smile  through  the  soft  vapory 
air, 

Ere,  o'er  the  frozen  earth,  the  loud  winds  run, 
Or  snows  are  sifted  o'er  the  meadows  bare. 

One  smile  on  the  brown  hills  and  naked  trees, 
And  the  dark  rocks  whose  summer  wreaths 
are  cast, 

And  the  blue  Gentian  flower,  that,  in  the  breeze, 
Nods  lonely,  of  her  beauteous  race  the  last. 

Yet  a  few  sunny  days,  in  which  the  bee 

Shall  murmur  by  the  hedge  that  skirts  the 
way, 

The  cricket  chirp  upon  the  russet  lea, 

And  man  delight  to  linger  in  thy  ray. 
Yet  one  rich  smile,  and  we  will  try  to  bear 
The  piercing  winter  frost,  and  winds,  and  dark- 
ened air. 


A  MEDITATION  ON  RHODE  ISLAND 
COAL. 


Decolor,  obscuris,  vilis,  non  ille  repexam 

Cesariem  regum,  non  Candida  virginis  ornat 

Colla,  nec  insigni  splendet  per  cmgula  morsu. 

Sed  nova  si  nigri  videas  miracula  saxi, 

Tunc  superat  pulchros  cultus  et  quicquid  Eois 

Indus  litoribus  rubra  scrutatur  in  alga.  Claudian. 

I  SAT  beside  the  glowing  grate,  fresh  heaped 
With  Newport  coal,  and  as  the  flame  grew 
bright — 

The    many-colored   flame  —  and   played  and 
leaped, 

I  thought  of  rainbows  and  the  northern  light, 
Moore's  Lalla  Rookh,  the  Treasury  Report, 
And  other  brilliant  matters  of  the  sort. 

And  last  I  thought  of  that  fair  isle  which  sent 
The  mineral  fuel  ;  on  a  summer  day 

I  saw  it  once,  with  heat  and  travel  spent, 

And  scratched  by  dwarf-oaks  in  the  hollow 
way; 


224 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Now  dragged  through  sand,  now  jolted  over 
stone — 

A  rugged  road  through  rugged  Tiverton. 

And  hotter  grew  the  air,  and  hoi  lower  grew 
The  deep-worn  path,  and  horror-struck,  I 
thought, 

Where  will  this  dreary  passage  lead  me  to  ? — : 

This  long,  dull  road,  so  narrow,  deep,  and  hot  ? 
I  looked  to  see  it  dive  in  earth  outright ; 
I  looked — but  saw  a  far  more  welcome  sight. 

Like  a  soft  mist  upon  the  evening  shore, 
At  once  a  lovely  isle  before  me  lay ; 

Smooth,  and  with  tender  verdure  covered  o'er, 
As  if  just  risen  from  its  calm  inland  bay  ; 

Sloped  each  way  gently  to  the  grassy  edge, 

And  the  small  waves  that  dallied  with  the  sedge. 

The  barley  was  just  reaped — its  heavy  sheaves 

Lay  on  the  stubble  field — the  tall  maize  stood 
Dark  in  its  summer  growth  —  and  shook  its 
leaves — 

And  bright  the  sunlight  played  on  the  young 
wood — 

For  fifty  years  ago,  the  old  men  say, 

The  Briton  hewed  their  ancient  groves  away. 

I  saw  where  fountains  freshened  the  green  land, 
And  where  the  pleasant  road,  from  door  to 
door 


ON  RHODE  ISLAND  COAL. 


With  rows  of  cherry-trees  on  either  hand, 

Went  wandering  all  that  fertile  region  o'er — 
Rogue's  Island  once  —  but,  when  the  rogues 
were  dead, 

Rhode  Island  was  the  name  it  took  instead. 

Beautiful  island  !  then  it  only  seemed 

A  lovely  stranger — it  has  grown  a  friend. 

I  gazed  on  its  smooth  slopes,  but  never  dreamed 
How  soon  that  bright  beneficent  isle  would 
send 

The  treasures  of  its  womb  across  the  sea, 
To  warm  a  poet's  room  and  boil  his  tea. 

Dark  anthracite  !  that  reddenest  on  my  hearth, 
Thou  in  those  island  mines  didst  slumber 
long  ; 

But  now  thou  art  come  forth  to  move  the  earth, 
And  put  to  shame  the  men  that  mean  thee 
wrong.  . 

Thou  shalt  be  coals  of  fire  to  those  that  hate 
thee, 

And  warm  the  shins  of  all  that  underrate  thee. 

Yea,  they  did  wrong  thee  foully — they  who 
mocked 

Thy  honest  face,  and  said  thou  wouldst  not 
burn  ; 

Of  hewing  thee  to  chimney-pieces  talked, 

And  grew  profane — and  swore,  in  bitter  scorn, 

15 


226 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


That  men  might  to  thy  inner  caves  retire, 
And  there,  unsinged,  abide  the  day  of  fire. 

Yet  is  thy  greatness  nigh.    I  pause  to  state, 
That  I  too  have  seen  greatness — even  I— 

Shook  hands  with  Adams — stared  at  La  Fayette, 
When,  barehead,  in  the  hot  noon  of  July, 

He  would  not  let  the  umbrella  be  held  o'er  him, 

From  which  three  cheers  burst  from  the  mob 
before  him. 

And  I  have  seen — not  many  months  ago — 
An  eastern  Governor  in  chapeau  bras 

And  military  coat,  a  glorious  show  ! 

Ride  forth  to  visit  the  reviews,  and  ah  ! 

How  oft  he  smiled  and  bowed  to  Jonathan  ! 

How  many  hands  were  shook  and  votes  were 
won  ! 

Twas  a  great  Governor — thou  too  shalt  be 
Great  in  thy  turn — and  wide  shall  spread  thy 
fame, 

And  swiftly  ;  farthest  Maine  shall  hear  of  thee, 
And  cold  New  Brunswick  gladden  at  thy 
name, 

And,  faintly  through  its  sleets,  the  weeping  isle 
That  sends  the  Boston  folks  their  cod  shall 
smile. 


ON  RHODE  ISLAND  COAL.  227 

For  thou  shalt  forge  vast  railways,  and  shalt 
heat 

The  hissing  rivers  into  steam,  and  drive 
Huge  masses  from  thy  mines,  on  iron  feet, 

Walking  their  steady  way,  as  if  alive, 
Northward,  till  everlasting  ice  besets  thee, 
And  south  as  far  as  the  grim  Spaniard  lets  thee. 

Thou  shalt  make  mighty  engines  swim  the  sea, 
Like  its  own  monsters  —  boats  that  for  a 
guinea 

Will  take  a  man  to  Havre — and  shalt  be 

The  moving  soul  of  many  a  spinning-jenny, 
And  ply  thy  shuttles,  till  a  bard  can  wear 
As  good  a  suit  of  broadcloth  as  the  mayor. 

Then  we  will  laugh  at  winter  when  we  hear 
The  grim  old  churl  about  our  dwellings  rave  : 

Thou,  from  that  "  ruler  of  the  inverted  year," 
Shalt  pluck  the  knotty  sceptre  Cowper  gave, 

And  pull  him  from  his  sledge,  and  drag  him  in, 

And  melt  the  icicles  from  off  his  chin. 


AN  INDIAN  AT  THE  BURIAL-PLACE 
OF  HIS  FATHERS. 


It  is  the  spot  I  came  to  seek, — 
My  father's  ancient  burial-place, 

Ere  from  these  vales,  ashamed  and  weak, 
Withdrew  our  wasted  race. 

It  is  the  spot, — I  know  it  well — 

Of  which  our  old  traditions  tell. 

For  here  the  upland  bank  sends  out 
A  ridge  toward  the  river-side  ; 

I  know  the  shaggy  hills  about, 
The  meadows  smooth  and  wide, 

The  plains,  that,  toward  the  southern  sky, 

Fenced  east  and  west  by  mountains  lie. 

A  white  man,  gazing  on  the  scene, 
Would  say  a  lovely  spot  was  here, 

And  praise  the  lawns,  so  fresh  and  green, 
Between  the  hills  so  sheer. 

I  like  it  not — I  would  the  plain 

Lay  in  its  tall  old  groves  again. 


AN  INDIAN  BURIAL-PLACE. 


The  sheep  are  on  the  slopes  around, 
The  cattle  in  the  meadows  feed, 

And  laborers  turn  the  crumbling  ground, 
Or  drop  the  yellow  seed, 

And  prancing  steeds,  in  trappings  gay, 

Whirl  the  bright  chariot  o'er  the  way. 

Methinks  it  were  a  nobler  sight 

To  see  these  vales  in  woods  arrayed, 

Their  summits  in  the  golden  light, 
Their  trunks  in  grateful  shade, 

And  herds  of  deer,  that  bounding  go 

O'er  rills  and  prostrate  trees  below. 

And  then  to  mark  the  lord  of  all, 
The  forest  hero,  trained  to  wars, 

Quivered  and  plumed,  and  lithe  and  tall, 
And  seamed  with  glorious  scars, 

Walk  forth,  amid  his  reign,  to  dare 

The  wolf,  and  grapple  with  the  bear. 

This  bank,  in  which  the  dead  were  laid, 
Was  sacred  when  its  soil  was  ours  ; 

Hither  the  artless  Indian  maid 

Brought  wreaths  of  beads  and  flowers, 

And  the  gray  chief  and  gifted  seer 

Worshipped  the  god  of  thunders  here. 

But  now  the  wheat  is  green  and  high 
On  clods  that  hid  the  warrior's  breast, 


230 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


And  scattered  in  the  furrows  lie 

The  weapons  of  his  rest, 
And  there,  in  the  loose  sand,  is  thrown 
Of  his  large  arm  the  mouldering  bone. 

Ah,  little  thought  the  strong  and  brave, 
Who  bore  the  lifeless  chieftain  forth  ; 

Or  the  young  wife,  that  weeping  gave 
Her  first-born  to  the  earth, 

That  the  pale  race,  who  waste  us  now, 

Among  their  bones  should  guide  the  plough. 

They  waste  us — ay — like  April  snow 
In  the  warm  noon,  we  shrink  away  ; 

And  fast  they  follow,  as  we  go 
Towards  the  setting  day,— 

Till  they  shall  fill  the  land,  and  we 

Are  driven  into  the  western  sea. 

But  I  behold  a  fearful  sign, 

To  which  the  white  men's  eyes  are  blind  ; 
Their  race  may  vanish  hence,  like  mine, 

And  leave  no  trace  behind, 
Save  ruins  o'er  the  region  spread, 
And  the  white  stones  above  the  dead. 

Before  these  fields  were  shorn  and  tilled, 
Full  to  the  brim  our  rivers  flowed  ; 

The  melody  of  waters  filled 

The  fresh  and  boundless  wood  ; 


AN  INDIAN  BURIAL-PLACE. 


And  torrents  dashed  and  rivulets  played, 
And  fountains  spouted  in  the  shade. 

Those  grateful  sounds  are  heard  no  more, 
The  springs  are  silent  in  the  sun, 

The  rivers,  by  the  blackened  shore, 
With  lessening  current  run  ; 

The  realm  our  tribes  are  crushed  to  get 

May  be  a  barren  desert  yet. 


SONNET— TO    COLE,    THE  PAINTER, 
DEPARTING  FOR  EUROPE. 


THINE  eyes  shall  see  the  light  of  distant  skies  : 
Yet,  COLE  !  thy  heart  shall  bear  to  Europe's 
strand 

A  living  image  of  thy  native  land, 
Such  as  on  thy  own  glorious  canvas  lies. 
Lone  lakes — savannas  where  the  bison  roves — 

Rocks  rich  with  summer  garlands  —  solemn 
streams — 

Skies,  where  the  desert  eagle  wheels  and 
screams, — 

Spring  bloom  and  autumn  blaze  of  boundless 
groves. 

Fair  scenes  shall  greet  thee  where  thou  goest — 
fair, 

But  different — everywhere  the  trace  of  men, 
Paths,  homes,  graves,  ruins,  from  the  lowest 
glen 

To  where  life  shrinks  from  the  fierce  Alpine  air. 
Gaze  on  them,  till  the  tears  shall  dim  thy 
sight, 

But  keep  that  earlier,  wilder  image  bright. 


GREEN  RIVER. 


When  breezes  are  soft  and  skies  are  fair, 
I  steal  an  hour  from  study  and  care, 
And  hie  me  away  to  the  woodland  scene, 
Where  wanders  the  stream  with  waters  of  green  ; 
As  if  the  bright  fringe  of  herbs  on  its  brink, 
Had  given  their  stain  to  the  wave  they  drink  ; 
And  they,  whose  meadows  it  murmurs  through, 
Have  named  the  stream  from  its  own  fair  hue. 

Yet  pure  its  waters — its  shallows  are  bright 
With  colored  pebbles  and  sparkles  of  light, 
And  clear  the  depths  where  its  eddies  play, 
And  dimples  deepen  and  whirl  away, 
And  the  plane-tree's  speckled  arms  o'ershoot 
The  swifter  current  that  mines  its  root, 
Through  whose  shifting  leaves,  as  you  walk  the 
hill, 

The  quivering  glimmer  of  sun  and  rill, 
With  a  sudden  flash  on  the  eye  is  thrown, 
Like  the  ray  that  streams  from  the  diamond 
stone. 


234 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Oh,  loveliest  there  the  spring  days  come, 
With  blossoms,  and  birds,  and  wild  bees'  hum 
The  flowers  of  summer  are  fairest  there, 
And  freshest  the  breath  of  the  summer  air  ; 
And  sweetest  the  golden  autumn  day 
In  silence  and  sunshine  glides  away. 

Yet  fair  as  thou  art,  thou  shunn'st  to  glide, 
Beautiful  stream  !  by  the  village  side  ; 
But  windest  away  from  haunts  of  men, 
To  quiet  valley  and  shaded  glen  ; 
And  forest,  and  meadow,  and  slope  of  hill, 
Around  thee,  are  lonely,  lovely,  and  still. 
Lonely — save  when,  by  thy  rippling  tides, 
From  thicket  to  thicket  the  angler  glides  ; 
Or  the  simpler  comes  with  basket  and  book, 
For  herbs  of  power  on  thy  banks  to  look  ; 
Or  haply,  some  idle  dreamer,  like  me, 
To  wander,  and  muse,  and  gaze  on  thee. 
Still — save  the  chirp  of  birds  that  feed 
On  the  river  cherry  and  seedy  reed, 
And  thy  own  wild  music  gushing  out 
With  mellow  murmur  and  fairy  shout,. 
From  dawn  to  the  blush  of  another  day, 
Like  traveller  singing  along  his  way. 

That  fairy  music  I  never  hear, 
Nor  gaze  on  those  waters  so  green  and  clear, 
And  mark  them  winding  away  from  sight, 
Darkened  with  shade  or  flashing  with  light, 


GREEN  RIVER. 


235 


While  o'er  them  the  vine  to  its  thicket  clings, 
And  the  zephyr  stoops  to  freshen  his  wings, 
But  I  wish  that  fate  had  left  me  free 
To  wander  these  quiet  haunts  with  thee, 
Till  the  eating  cares  of  earth  should  depart, 
And  the  peace  of  the  scene  pass  into  my  heart ; 
And  I  envy  thy  stream,  as  it  glides  along, 
Through  its  beautiful  banks  in  a  trance  of  song. 

Though  forced  to  drudge  for  the  dregs  of 
men, 

And  scrawl  strange  words  with  the  barbarous 
pen, 

And  mingle  among  the  jostling  crowd, 

Where  the  sons  of  strife  are  subtle  and  loud — 

I  often  come  to  this  quiet  place, 

To  breathe  the  airs  that  ruffle  thy  face, 

And  gaze  upon  thee  in  silent  dream, 

For  in  thy  lonely  and  lovely  stream, 

An  image  of  that  calm  life  appears, 

That  won  my  heart  in  my  greener  years. 


TO  A  CLOUD. 


BEAUTIFUL  cloud  !  with  folds  so  soft  and  fair, 

Swimming  in  the  pure  quiet  air  ! 

Thy  fleeces  bathed  in  sunlight,  while  below 

Thy  shadow  o'er  the  vale  moves  slow  ; 

Where,  midst  their  labor,  pause  the  reaper  train 

As  cool  it  comes  along  the  grain. 

Beautiful  cloud  !  I  would  I  were  with  thee 

In  thy  calm  way  o'er  land  and  sea  : 

To  rest  on  thy  unrolling  skirts,  and  look 

On  Earth  as  on  an  open  book  ; 

On  streams  that  tie  her  realms  with  silver  bands, 

And  the  long  ways  that  seam  her  lands  ; 

And  hear  her  humming  cities,  and  the  sound 

Of  the  great  ocean  breaking  round. 

Ay — I  would  sail  upon  thy  air-borne  car 

To  blooming  regions  distant  far, 

To  where  the  sun  of  Andalusia  shines 

On  his  own  olive-groves  and  vines, 

Or  the  soft  lights  of  Italy's  bright  sky 

In  smiles  upon  her  ruins  lie. 


TO  A  CLOUD. 


237 


But  I  would  woo  the  winds  to  let  us  rest 
O'er  Greece  long  fettered  and  oppressed, 
Whose  sons  at  length  have  heard  the  call  that 
comes 

From  the  old  battle-fields  and  tombs, 

And  risen,  and  drawn  the  sword,  and  on  the  foe 

Have  dealt  the  swift  and  desperate  blow, 

And  the  Othman  power  is  cloven,  and  the  stroke 

Has  touched  its  chains,  and  they  are  broke. 

Ay,  we  would  linger  till  the  sunset  there 

Should  come,  to  purple  all  the  air, 

And  thou  reflect  upon  the  sacred  ground 

The  ruddy  radiance  streaming  round. 

Bright  meteor  !  for  the  summer  noontide  made  ! 
Thy  peerless  beauty  yet  shall  fade. 
The  sun,  that  fills  with  light  each  glistening  fold, 
Shall  set,  and  leave  thee  dark  and  cold  : 
The  blast  shall  rend  thy  skirts,  or  thou  may'st 
frown 

In  the  dark  heaven  when  storms  come  down, 
And  weep  in  rain,  till  man's  inquiring  eye 
Miss  thee,  forever,  from  the  sky. 


AFTER  A  TEMI  EST. 

THE  day  had  been  a  day  of  wind  and  storm  ;— - 

The  wind  was  laid,  the  storm  was  over-past, — ■ 
And  stooping  from  the  zenith,  bright  and  warm 

Shone  the  great  sun  on  the  wide  earth  at  last. 

I  stood  upon  the  upland  slope,  and  cast 
My  eye  upon  a  broad  and  beauteous  scene, 

Where  the  vast  plain  lay  girt  by  mountains 
vast, 

And  hills  o'er  hills  lifted  their  heads  of  green, 
With  pleasant  vales  scooped  out  and  villages 
betwreen. 

The  rain-drops  glistened  on  the  trees  around, 
Whose  shadows  on  the  tall  grass  were  not 
stirred, 

Save  when  a  shower  of  diamonds,  to  the  ground, 
Was  shaken  by  the  flight  of  startled  bird  ; 
For  birds  were  warbling  round,  and  bees  were 
heard 

About  the  flowers  ;  the  cheerful  rivulet  sung 
And  gossiped,  as  he  hastened  ocean-ward  ; 

AFTER  A  TEMPEST. 


239 


To  the  gray  oak  the  squirrel,  chiding,  clung, 
And  chirping  from  the  ground  the  grasshopper 
upsprung. 

And  from  beneath  the  leaves  that  kept  them  dry 
Flew  many  a  glittering  insect  here  and  there, 

And  darted  up  and  down  the  butterfly, 
That  seemed  a  living  blossom  of  the  air. 
The  flocks  came  scattering  from  the  thicket, 
where 

The  violent  rain  had  pent  them  ;  in  the  way 
Strolled  groups  of  damsels  frolicksome  and 
fair  ; 

The  farmer  swung  the  scythe  or  turned  the  hay, 
And  'twixt  the  heavy  swaths  his  children  were 
at  play. 

It  was  a  scene  of  peace — and,  like  a  spell, 
Did  that  serene  and  golden  sunlight  fall 

Upon  the  motionless  wood  that  clothed  the  fell, 
And  precipice  upspringing  like  a  wall, 
And  glassy  river  and  white  waterfall, 

And  happy  living  things  that  trod  the  bright 
And  beauteous  scene  ;  while  far  beyond  them 
all, 

On  many  a  lovely  valley,  out  of  sight, 
Was  poured  from  the  blue  heavens  the  same 
soft  golden  light. 

I  looked,  and  thought  the  quiet  of  the  scene 
An  emblem  of  the  peace  that  yet  shall  be, 


240 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


When,  o'er  earth's  continents  and  isles  between, 
The  noise  of  war  shall  cease  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  married  nations  dwell  in  harmony  ; 

When  millions,  crouching  in  the  dust  to  one, 
No  more  shall  beg  their  lives  on  bended  knee, 

Nor  the  black  stake  be  dressed,  nor  in  the  sun 

The  o'erlabored  captive  toil,  and  wish  his  life 
were  done. 

Too  long,  at  clash  of  arms  amid  her  bowers 
And   pools   of  blood,  the  earth   has  stood 
aghast, 

The  fair  earth,  that  should  only  blush  with 
flowers 

And  ruddy  fruits  ;  but  not  for  aye  can  last 
The  storm,  and  sweet  the  sunshine  when  'tis 
past. 

Lo,  the  clouds  roll  away — they  break — they  fly, 

And,  like  the  glorious  light  of  summer,  cast 
O'er  the  wide  landscape  from  the  embracing 
sky, 

On  all  the  peaceful  world  the  smile  of  heaven 
shall  lie. 


THE  BURIAL-PLACE— A  FRAGMENT. 


EREWHILE,  on  England's  pleasant  shores,  our 
sires 

Left  not   their    churchyards  unadorned  with 
shades 

Or  blossoms  ;  and  indulgent  to  the  strong 
And  natural  dread  of  man's  last  home,  the  grave, 
Its  frost  and  silence — they  disposed  around, 
To  soothe  the  melancholy  spirit  that  dwelt 
Too  sadly  on  life's  close,  the  forms  and  hues 
Of  vegetable  beauty. — There  the  yew, 
Green  even  amid  the  snows  of  winter,  told 
Of  immortality,  and  gracefully 
The  willow,  a  perpetual  mourner,  drooped  ; 
And  there  the  gadding  woodbine  crept  about, 
And  there  the  ancient  ivy.    From  the  spot 
Where  the  sweet  maiden,  in  her  blossoming 
years, 

Cut  off,  was  laid  with  streaming  eyes,  and  hands 
That  trembled  as  they  placed  her  there,  the  rose 
Sprung  modest,  on  bowed  stalk,  and  better 
spoke 

Her  graces,  than  the  proudest  monument. 
x6 


242 


BRYANT'S  POEMS, 


And  children  set  about  their  playmate's  grave 
The  pansy.    On  the  infant's  little  bed, 
Wet  at  its  planting  with  maternal  tears, 
Emblem  of  early  sweetness,  early  death, 
Nestled  the  lowly  primrose.    Childless  dames, 
And  maids  that  would  not  raise  the  reddened 
eye, 

Orphans,  from  whose  young  lids  the  light  of  joy 
Fled  early, — silent  lovers,  who  had  given 
All  that  they  lived  for  to  the  arms  of  earth, 
Came  often,  o'er  the  recent  graves  to  strew 
Their  offerings,  rue,  and  rosemary,  and  flowers. 

The  pilgrim  bands  who  passed  the  sea  to  keep 
Their  Sabbaths  in  the  eye  of  God  alone, 
In  his  wide  temple  of  the  wilderness, 
Brought  not  these  simple  customs  of  the  heart 
With  them.    It  might  be,  while  they  laid  their 
dead 

By  the  vast  solemn  skirts  of  the  old  groves, 
And  the  fresh  virgin  soil  poured  forth  strange 
flowers 

About  their  graves  ;  and  the  familiar  shades 
Of  their  own  native  isle,  and  wonted  blooms, 
And  herbs  were  wanting,  which  the  pious  hand 
Might  plant  or  scatter  there,  these  gentle  rites 
Passed  out  of  use.    Now  they  are  scarcely 
known, 

And  rarely  in  our  borders  may  you  meet 
The  tall  larch,  sighing  in  the  burying-place, 
Or  willow,  trailing  low  its  boughs  to  hide 


THE  BURIAL-PLACE— A  FRAGMENT  243 


The  gleaming  marble.    Naked  rows  of  graves 
And  melancholy  ranks  of  monuments 
Are  seen  instead,  where  the  coarse  grass,  be- 
tween, 

Shoots  up  its  dull  green  spikes,  and  in  the  wind 
Hisses,  and  the  neglected  bramble  nigh, 
Offers  its  berries  to  the  school-boy's  hand, 
In  vain — they  grow  too  near  the  dead.  Yet 
here, 

Nature,  rebuking  the  neglect  of  man, 
Plants  often,  by  the  ancient  mossy  stone, 
The  brier  rose,  and  upon  the  broken  turf 
That  clothes  the  fresher  grave,  the  strawberry 
vine 

Sprinkles  its  swell  with  blossoms,  and  lays  forth 
Her  ruddy,  pouting  fruit.  ***** 


THE  YELLOW  VIOLET. 


WHEN  beechen  buds  begin  to  swell, 

And  woods  the  blue-bird's  warble  know, 

The  yellow  violet's  modest  bell 

Peeps  from  the  last  year's  leaves  below. 

Ere  russet  fields  their  green  resume, 
Sweet  flower,  I  love,  in  forest  bare, 

To  meet  thee,  when  thy  faint  perfume 
Alone  is  in  the  virgin  air. 

Of  all  her  train,  the  hands  of  Spring 
First  plant  thee  in  the  watery  mould, 

And  I  have  seen  thee  blossoming 
Beside  the  snow-bank's  edges  cold. 

Thy  parent  sun,  who  bade  thee  view 
Pale  skies,  and  chilling  moisture  sip, 

Has  bathed  thee  in  his  own  bright  hue, 
And  streaked  with  jet  thy  glowing  lip. 


THE  YELLOW  VIOLET 


245 


Yet  slight  thy  form,  and  low  thy  seat, 
And  earthward  bent  thy  gentle  eye, 

Unapt  the  passing  view  to  meet, 

When  loftier  flowers  are  flaunting  nigh. 

Oft,  in  the  sunless  April  day, 

Thy  early  smile  has  stayed  my  walk, 

But  midst  the  gorgeous  blooms  of  May, 
I  passed  thee  on  thy  humble  stalk. 

So  they,  who  climb  to  wealth,  forget 
The  friends  in  darker  fortunes  tried. 

I  copied  them— but  I  regret 

That  I  should  ape  the  ways  of  pride. 

And  when  again  the  genial  hour 
Awakes  the  painted  tribes  of  light, 

I'll  not  o'erlook  the  modest  flower 
That  made  the  woods  of  April  bright. 


"I    CANNOT    FORGET    WITH  WHAT 
FERVID  DEVOTION." 


I  CANNOT  forget  with  what  fervid  devotion 
I  worshipped  the  visions  of  verse  and  of  fame  : 

Each  gaze  at  the  glories  of  earth,  sky,  and  ocean, 
To  my  kindled  emotions,  was  wind  over  flame. 

And  deep  were  my  musings  in  life's  early  blos- 
som, 

'Mid  the  twilight  of  mountain  groves  wander- 
ing long  ; 

How  thrilled  my  young  veins,  and  how  throbbed 
my  full  bosom, 
When  o'er  me  descended  the  spirit  of  song. 

Mong  the  deep-cloven  fells  that  for  ages  had 
listened 

To  the  rush  of  the  pebble-paved  river  between, 
Where  the  kingfisher  screamed  and  gray  preci- 
pice glistened, 

All  breathless  with  awe  have  I  gazed  on  the 
scene  ; 


/  CANNOT  FORGET.  247 

Till  I  felt  the  dark  power  o'er  my  reveries  steal- 
ing, 

From  his  throne  in  the  depth  of  that  stern 
solitude, 

And  he  breathed  through  my  lips,  in  that  tem- 
pest of  feeling, 
Strains  warm  with   his  spirit,  though  artless 
and  rude. 

Bright  visions  !    I  mixed  with  the  world  and  ye 
faded  ; 

No  longer  your  pure  rural  worshipper  now  ; 
In  the  haunts  your  continual  presence  pervaded, 
Ye  shrink  from  the  signet  of  care  on  my  brow. 

In  the  old  mossy  groves  on  the  breast  of  the 
mountain, 

In  deep  lonely  glens  where  the  waters  com- 
plain, 

By  the  shade  of  the  rock,  by  the  gush  of  the 
fountain, 

I  seek  your  loved  footsteps,  but  seek  them  in 
vain. 

Oh,  leave  not,  forlorn  and  forever  forsaken, 
Your  pupil  and  victim,  to  life  and  its  tears  ! 

But  sometimes  return,  and  in  mercy  awaken 
The  glories  ye  showed  to  his  earlier  years. 


LINES  ON  REVISITING  THE  COUNTRY 


I  STAND  upon  my  native  hills  again, 

Broad,  round,  and  green,  that  in  the  summer 
sky 

With  garniture  of  waving  grass  and  grain, 

Orchards,  and  beechen  forests,  basking  lie, 
While  deep  the  sunless  glens  are  scaoped  be- 
tween, 

Where  brawl  o'er  shallow  beds  the  streams  un- 
seen. 

A  lisping  voice  and  glancing  eyes  are  near, 
And  ever  restless  feet  of  one,  who,  now, 

Gathers  the  blossoms  of  her  fourth  bright  year  ; 
There  plays  a  gladness  o'er  her  fair  young 
brow, 

As  breaks  the  varied  scene  upon  her  sight, 
Upheaved  and  spread  in  verdure  and  in  light. 

For  I  have  taught  her,  with  delighted  eye, 
To  gaze  upon  the  mountains,  to  behold, 


ON  REVISITING  THE  COUNTRY.  249 


With  deep  affection,  the  pure  ample  sky, 

And  clouds  along  its  blue  abysses  rolled, 
To  love  the  song  of  waters,  and  to  hear 
The  melody  of  winds  with  charmed  ear. 

Here,  I  have  'scaped  the  city's  stifling  heat, 
Its  horrid  sounds,  and  its  polluted  air  ; 

And  where  the  season's  milder  fervors  beat, 
And  gales,  that  sweep  the  forest  borders, 
bear 

The  song  of  bird,  and  sound  of  running  stream, 
Am  come  awhile  to  wander  and  to  dream. 

Ay,  flame  thy  fiercest,  sun  !   thou  canst  not 
wake, 

In  this  pure  air,  the  plague  that  walks  unseen. 
The  maize  leaf  and  the  maple  bough  but  take, 
From  thy  strong  heats,  a  deeper,  glossier 
green. 

The  mountain  wind,  that  faints  not  in  thy  ray, 
Sweeps  the  blue  steams  of  pestilence  away. 

The  mountain  wind  !  most  spiritual  thing  of  all 
The  wide  earth  knows — when,  in  the  sultry 
time, 

He  stoops  him  from  his  vast  cerulean  hall, 
He  seems  the  breath  of  a  celestial  clime  ; 
As  if  from  heaven's  wide-open  gates  did  flow, 
Health  and  refreshment  on  the  world  below. 


SONNET— MUTATION. 


They  talk  of  short-lived  pleasure — be  it  so— 
Pain  dies  as  quickly :  stern,  hard-featured 
pain 

Expires,  and  lets  her  weary  prisoner  go. 

The  fiercest  agonies  have  shortest  reign  ; 

And  after  dreams  of  horror,  comes  again 
The  welcome  morning  with  its  rays  of  peace. 

Oblivion,  softly  wiping  out  the  stain, 
Makes  the  strong  secret  pangs  of  shame  to 
cease  : 

Remorse  is  virtue's  root ;  its  fair  increase 

Are  fruits  of  innocence  and  blessedness  : 
Thus  joy,  o'erborne  and  bound,  doth  still  re- 
lease 

His  young  limbs  from  the  chains  that  round 
him  press. 

Weep  not  that  the  world  changes — did  it  keep 
A  stable  changeless  state,  'twere  cause  indeed 
to  weep. 


HYMN  TO  THE  NORTH  STAR. 


THE  sad  and  solemn  night 
Has  yet  her  multitude  of  cheerful  fires  ; 

The  glorious  host  of  light  • 
Walk  the  dark  hemisphere  till  she  retires  ; 
All  through  her  silent  watches,  gliding  slow, 
Her  constellations  come,  and  climb  the  heavens, 
and  go. 

Day,  too,  hath  many  a  star 
To  grace  his  gorgeous  reign,  as  bright  as  they: 

Through  the  blue  fields  afar, 
Unseen,  they  follow  in  his  flaming  way  : 
Many  a  bright  lingerer,  as  the  eve  grows  dim, 
Tells  what  a  radiant  troop  arose  and  set  with 
him. 

And  thou  dost  see  them  rise, 
Star  of  the  Pole  !  and  thou  dost  see  them  set. 

Alone,  in  thy  cold  skies, 
Thou  keep'st  thy  old  unmoving  station  yet, 
Nor  join'st  the  dances  of  that  glittering  train, 
Nor  dipp'st  thy  virgin  orb  in  the  blue  western 
main. 


252 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


There,  at  morn's  rosy  birth, 
Thou  lookest  meekly  through  the  kindling  air, 

And  eve,  that  round  the  earth 
Chases  the  day,  beholds  thee  watching  there;  . 
There  noontide  finds  thee,  and  the  hour  that  calls 
The  shapes  of  polar  flame  to  scale  heaven's  azure 
walls. 

Alike,  beneath  thine  eye, 
The  deeds  of  darkness  and  of  light  are  done  ; 

High  toward  the  star-lit  sky 
Towns  blaze — the  smoke  of  battle  blots  the  sun — 
The  night-storm  on  a  thousand  hills  is  loud — 
And  the  strong  wind  of  day  doth  mingle  sea  and 
cloud. 

On  thy  unaltering  blaze 
The  half-wrecked  mariner,  his  compass  lost, 

Fixes  his  steady  gaze, 
And  steers,  undoubting,  to  the  friendly  coast ; 
And  they  who  stray  in  perilous  wastes,  by  night, 
Are  glad  when  thou  dost  shine  to  guide  their 
footsteps  right. 

And,  therefore,  bards  of  old, 
Sages,  and  hermits  of  the  solemn  wood, 

"Did  in  thy  beams  behold 
A  beauteous  type  of  that  unchanging  good, 
That  bright  eternal  beacon,  by  whose  ray 
The  voyager  of  time  should  shape  his  heedful 
way. 


THE  TWENTY-SECOND  OF  DECEMBER. 


Wild  was  the  day  ;  the  wintry  sea 

Moaned  sadly  on  New  England's  strand, 

When  first,  the  thoughtful  and  the  free, 
Our  fathers,  trod  the  desert  land. 

They  little  thought  how  pure  a  light, 

With  years,  should  gather  round  that  day  ; 
low  love  should  keep  their  memories  bright. 
How  wide  a  realm  their  sons  should  sway. 

Green  are  their  bays  ;  but  greener  still 

Shall  round  their  spreading  fame  be  wreathed, 

And  regions,  now  untrod,  shall  thrill 

With    reverence,    when    their   names  are 
breathed. 

Till  where  the  sun,  with  softer  fires, 

Looks  on  the  vast  Pacific's  sleep, 
The  children  of  the  pilgrim  sires 

This  hallowed  day  like  us  shall  keep, 


ODE 


FOR  AN  AGRICULTURAL  CELEBRATION. 


Far  back  in  the  ages, 

The  plough  with  wreaths  was  crowned  ; 
The  hands  of  kings  and  sages 

Entwined  the  chaplet  round  ; 
Till  men  of  spoil  disdained  the  toil 

By  which  the  world  was  nourished, 
And  dews  of  blood  enriched  the  soil 

Where  green  their  laurels  flourished  : 
— Now  the  world  her  fault  repairs — 

The  guilt  that  stains  her  story  ; 
And  weeps  her  crimes  amid  the  cares 

That  formed  her  earliest  glory. 

The  proud  throne  shall  crumble, 

The  diadem  shall  wane, 
The  tribes  of  earth  shall  humble 

The  pride  of  those  who  reign  ; 
And  War  shall  lay  his  pomp  away ; — 

The  fame  that  heroes  cherish, 


ODE. 


The  glory  earned  in  deadly  fray, 
Shall  fade,  decay,  and  perish. 

Honor  waits,  o'er  all  the  Earth, 
Through  endless  generations, 

The  art  that  calls  her  harvests  forth, 
And  feeds  the  expectant  nations. 


A  WALK  AT  SUNSET. 


WHEN  insect  wings  are  glistening  in  the  beam 
Of  the  low  sun,  and  mountain-tops  are  bright, 

Oh,  let  me,  by  the  crystal  valley-stream, 
Wander  amid  the  mild  and  mellow  light  ; 

And  while  the  redbreast  pipes  his  evening  lay, 

Give  me  one  lonely  hour  to  hymn  the  setting 
day. 

Oh,  sun  !  that  o'er  the  western  mountains  now 
Goest  down  in  glory  !  ever  beautiful 

And  blessed  is  thy  radiance,  whether  thou 
Colorest  the  eastern  heaven  and  night-mist 
cool, 

Till  the  bright  day-star  vanish,  or  on  high 
Climbest,  and  streamest  thy  white  splendors 
from  mid-sky. 

Yet,  loveliest  are  thy  setting  smiles,  and  fair, 
Fairest  of  all  that  earth  beholds,  the  hues 

That  live  among  the  clouds,  and  flush  the  air, 
Lingering  and  deepening  at  the  hour  of  dews. 


A   WALK  AT  SUNSET. 


257 


Then  softest  gales  are  breathed,  and  softest  heard 
The  plaining  voice  of  streams,  and  pensive  note 
of  bird. 

They  who  here  roamed,  of  yore,  the  forest  wide, 
Felt,  by  such  charm,  their  simple  bosoms  won  ; 
They  deemed  their  quivered  warrior,  when  he 
died, 

Went  to  bright  isles  beneath  the  setting  sun  ; 
Where  winds  are  aye  at  peace,  and  skies  are 
fair, 

And  purple-skirted  clouds  curtain  the  crimson 
air. 

So,  with  the  glories  of  the  dying  day, 

Its  thousand  trembling  lights  and  changing 
hues, 

The  memory  of  the  brave  who  passed  away 
Tenderly  mingled  ; — fitting  hour  to  muse 
On  such  grave  theme,  and  sweet  the  dream  that 
shed 

Brightness  and  beauty  round  the  destiny  of  the 
dead. 

For  ages,  on  the  silent  forests  here, 

Thy  beams  did  fall  before  the  red  man  came 

To  dwell  beneath  them  ;  in  their  shade  the  deer 
Fed,  and  feared  not  the  arrow's  deadly  aim. 
17 


258 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Nor  tree  was  felled,  in  all  that  world  of  woods, 
Save  by  the  beaver's  tooth,  or  winds,  or  rush  of 
floods. 

Then  came  the  hunter  tribes,  and  thou  didst 
look, 

For  ages,  on  their  deeds  in  the  hard  chase, 
And  well-fought  wars ;  green  sod  and  silver 
brook 

Took  the  first  stain  of  blood  ;  before  thy  face 
The  warrior  generations  came  and  passed, 
And  glory  was  laid  up  for  many  an  age  to  last. 

Now  they  are  gone,  gone  as  thy  setting  blaze 
Goes  down  the  west,  while  night  is  pressing 
on, 

And,  with  them,  the  old  tale  of  better  days, 

And  trophies  of  remembered  power,  are  gone. 
Yon  field  that  gives  the  harvest,  where  the 
plough 

Strikes  the  white  bone,  is  all  that  tells  their 
story  now. 

I  stand  upon  their  ashes,  in  thy  beam, 
The  offspring  of  another  race,  I  stand, 

Beside  a  stream  they  loved,  this  valley  stream ; 
And  where  the  night-fire  of  the  quivered  band 

Showed  the  gray  oak  by  fits,  and  war-song  rung, 

I  teach  the  quiet  shades  the  strains  of  this  new 
tongue. 


A   WALK  AT  SUNSET. 


259 


Farewell !  but  thou  shalt  come  again — thy  light 
Must  shine  on  other  changes,  and  behold 

The  place  of  the  thronged  city  still  as  night — 
States  fallen — new  empires  built  upon  the 
old— 

But  never  shalt  thou  see  these  realms  again 
Darkened  by  boundless  groves,  and  roamed  by 
savage  men. 


HYMN  OF  THE  WALDENSES. 


Hear,  Father,  hear  thy  faint  afflicted  flock 
Cry  to  thee,  from  the  desert  and' the  rock  ; 
While  those,  who  seek  to  slay  thy  children,  hold 
Blasphemous  worship  under  roofs  of  gold  ; 
And  the  broad  goodly  lands,  with  pleasant  airs 
That  nurse  the  grape  and  wave  the  grain,  are 
theirs. 

Yet  better  were  this  mountain  wilderness, 
And  this  wild  life  of  danger  and  distress — 
Watchings  by  night  and  perilous  flight  by  day, 
And  meetings  in  the  depths  of  earth  to  pray, 
Better,  far  better,  than  to  kneel  with  them, 
And  pay  the  impious  rite  thy  laws  condemn. 

Thou,  Lord,  dost  hold  the  thunder  ;  the  firrr 
land 

Tosses  in  billows  when  it  feels  thy  hand  ; 
Thou  dashest  nation  against  nation,  then 
Stillest  the  angry  world  to  peace  again. 


HYMN  OF  THE  WALDENSES.  261 


Oh,  touch  their  stony  hearts  who  hunt  thy 
sons — 

The  murderers  of  our  wives  and  little  ones. 

Yet,*mighty  God,  yet  shall  thy  frown  look  forth 
Unveiled,  and  terribly  shall  shake  the  earth. 
Then  the  foul  power  of  priestly  sin  and  all 
Its  long-upheld  idolatries  shall  fall. 
Thou  shalt  raise  up  the  trampled  and  oppressed, 
And  thy  delivered  saints  shall  dwell  in  rest. 


SONG  OF  THE  STARS. 


When  the  radiant  morn  of  creation  broke, 
And  the  world  in  the  smile  of  God  awoke, 
And  the  empty  realms  of  darkness  and  death 
Were  moved  through  their  depths  by  his  mighty 
breath, 

And  orbs  of  beauty  and  spheres  of  flame 
From  the  void  abyss  by  myriads  came, — 
In  the  joy  of  youth  as  they  darted  away, 
Through  the  widening  wastes  of  space  to  play, 
Their  silver  voices  in  chorus  rung, 
And  this  was  the  song  the  bright  ones  sung. 

"  Away,  away,  through  the  wide,  wide  sky, — 
The  fair  blue  fields  that  before  us  lie, — 
Each  sun,  with  the  worlds  that  round  him  roll, 
Each  planet,  poised  on  her  turning  pole  ; 
With  her  isles  of  green,  and  her  clouds  of 
white, 

And  her  waters  that  lie  like  fluid  light. 


SONG  OF  THE  STARS. 


263 


"  For  the  source  of  glory  uncovers  his  face, 
And  the  brightness  o'erflows  unbounded  space  ; 
And  we  drink,  as  we  go,  the  luminous  tides 
In  our  ruddy  air  and  our  blooming  sides  : 
Lo,  yonder  the  living  splendors  play  ; 
Away,  on  our  joyous  path,  away ! 

"  Look,  look,  through  our  glittering  ranks  afar, 
In  the  infinite  azure,  star  after  star, 
How  they  brighten  and  bloom  as  they  swiftly 
pass  ! 

How  the  verdure  runs  o'er  each  rolling  mass  ! 
And  the  path  of  the  gentle  winds  is  seen, 
Where  the  small  waves  dance,  and  the  young 
woods  lean. 

"  And  see,  where  the  brighter  day-beams  pour, 
How  the  rainbows  hang  in  the  sunny  shower ; 
And  the  morn  and  eve,  with  their  pomp  of  hues, 
Shift  o'er  the  bright  planets  and  shed  their 
dews  ; 

And  'twixt  them  both,  o'er  the  teeming  ground, 
With  her  shadowy  cone  the  night  goes  round  ! 

t(  Away,  away  !  in  our  blossoming  bowers, 
In  the  soft  air  wrapping  these  spheres  of  ours, 
In  the  seas  and  fountains  that  shine  with  morn, 
See,  Love  is  brooding,  and  Life  is  born, 
And  breathing  myriads  are  breaking  from  night, 
To  rejoice  like  us,  in  motion  and  light. 


264 


BRYANT'S  POEMS, 


"  Glide  on  in  your  beauty,  ye  youthful  spheres 

To  weave  the  dance  that  measures  the  years  ; 

Glide  on,  in  the  glory  and  gladness  sent, 

To  the  farthest  wall  of  the  firmanent,— 

The  boundless  visible  smile  of  Him, 

To  the  veil  of  whose  brow  your  lamps  are  dim." 


HYMN  OF  THE  CITY. 


NOT  in  the  solitude 
Alone,  may  man  commune  with  Heaven,  or  see 

Only  in  savage  wood 
And  sunny  vale,  the  present  Deity  ; 

Or  only  hear  his  voice 
Where  the  winds  whisper  and  the  waves  rejoice. 

Even  here  do  I  behold 
Thy  steps,  Almighty  ! — here,  amidst  the  crowd 

Through  the  great  city  rolled, 
With  everlasting  murmur,  deep  and  loud — 

Choking  the  ways  that  wind 
'Mongst  the  proud  piles,  the  work  of  human 
kind. 

Thy  golden  sunshine  comes 
From  the  round  heaven,  and  on  their  dwellings 
lies, 

And  lights  their  inner  homes — 
For  them  thou  fill'st  with  air  the  unbounded 
skies, 


266 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


And  givest  them  the  stores 
Of  ocean,  and  the  harvests  of  its  shores. 

Thy  spirit  is  around, 
Quickening  the  restless  mass  that  sweeps  alon 

And  this  eternal  sound — 
Voices  and  footfalls  of  the  numberless  throng 

Like  the  resounding  sea, 
Or  like  the  rainy  tempest,  speaks  of  thee. 

And  when  the  hours  of  rest 
Come,  like  a  calm  upon  the  mid-sea  brine, 

Hushing  its  billowy  breast — 
The  quiet  of  that  moment,  too,  is  thine  ; 

It  breathes  of  Him  who  keeps 
The  vast  and  helpless  city  while  it  sleeps. 


«  NO  MAN  KNOWETH  HIS  SEPULCHRE." 


When  he,  who,  from  the  scourge  of  wrong, 
Aroused  the  Hebrew  tribes  to  fly, 

Saw  the  fair  region,  promised  long, 
And  bowed  him  on  the  hills  to  die  ; 

God  made  his  grave,  to  men  unknown, 
Where  Moab's  rocks  a  vale  infold, 

And  laid  the  aged  seer  alone 

To  slumber  while  the  world  grows  old. 

Thus  still,  whene'er  the  good  and  just 
Close  the  dim  eye  on  life  and  pain, 

Heaven  watches  o'er  their  sleeping  dust, 
Till  the  pure  spirit  comes  again. 

Though  nameless,  trampled,  and  forgot, 

His  servant's  humble  ashes  lie, 
Yet  God  has  marked  and  sealed  the  spot, 

To  call  its  inmate  to  the  sky. 


BLESSED  ARE  THEY  THAT  MOURN." 


Oh,  deem  not  they  are  blest  alone 
Whose  lives  a  peaceful  tenor  keep  ; 

The  Power  who  pities  man,  has  shown 
A  blessing  for  the  eyes  that  weep. 

The  light  of  smiles  shall  fill  again 
The  lids  that  overflow  with  tears  ; 

And  weary  hours  of  wo  and  pain 
Are  promises  of  happier  years. 

There  is  a  day  of  sunny  rest 

For  every  dark  and  troubled  night ; 

And  grief  may  bide,  an  evening  guest, 
But  joy  shall  come  with  early  light. 

And  thou,  who,  o'er  thy  friend's  low  bier 
Sheddest  the  bitter  drops  like  rain, 

Hope  that  a  brighter,  happier  sphere, 
Will  give  him  to  thy  arms  again. 


BLESSED  ARE  THEY  THAT  MOURN. 

Nor  let  the  good  man's  trust  depart, 
Though  life  its  common  gifts  deny,  . 

Though  with  a  pierced  and  broken  heart, 
And  spurned  of  men,  he  goes  to  die. 

For  God  has  marked  each  sorrowing  day, 
And  numbered  every  secret  tear, 

And  heaven's  long  age  of  bliss  shall  pay 
For  all  his  children  suffer  here. 


THE  SKIES. 


AY  !  gloriously  thou  standest  there, 
Beautiful,  boundless  firmament ! 

That  swelling  wide  o'er  earth  and  air, 
And  round  the  horizon  bent, 

With  thy  bright  vault,  and  sapphire  wall, 

Dost  overhang  and  circle  all. 

Far,  far  below  thee,  tall  old  trees 
Arise,  and  piles  built  up  of  old, 

And  hills,  whose  ancient  summits  freeze, 
In  the  fierce  light  and  cold. 

The  eagle  soars  his  utmost  height, 

Yet  far  thou  stretchest  o'er  his  flight. 

Thou  hast  thy  frowns — with  thee  on  high, 
The  storm  has  made  his  airy  seat, 

Beyond  that  soft  blue  curtain  lie 
His  stores  of  hail  and  sleet. 

Thence  the  consuming  lightnings  break. 

There  the  strong  hurricanes  awake. 

Yet  art  thou  prodigal  of  smiles — 

Smiles,  sweeter  than  thy  frowns  are  stern 

Earth  sends,  from  all  her  thousand  isles,  , 
A  shout  at  thy  return. 


THE  SKIES. 


271 


The  glory  that  comes  down  from  thee, 
Bathes,  in  deep  joy,  the  land  and  sea. 

The  sun,  the  gorgeous  sun,  is  thine, 

The  pomp  that  brings  and  shuts  the  day, 

The  clouds  that  round  him  change  and  shine, 
The  airs  that  fan  his  way. 

Thence  look  the  thoughtful  stars,  and  there 

The  meek  moon  walks  the  silent  air. 

The  sunny  Italy  may  boast 

The  beauteous  tints  that  flush  her  skies, 
And  lovely,  round  the  Grecian  coast, 

May  thy  blue  pillars  rise. 
I  only  know  how  fair  they  stand, 
Around  my  own  beloved  land. 

And  they  are  fair — a  charm  is  theirs, 

That  earth,  the  proud  green  earth,  has  not — ■ 

With  all  the  forms,  and  hues,  and  airs, 
That  haunt  her  sweetest  spot. 

We  gaze  upon  thy  calm  pure  sphere, 

And  read  of  Heaven's  eternal  year. 

Oh,  when,  amid  the  throng  of  men, 
The  heart  grows  sick  of  hollow  mirth, 

How  willingly  we  turn  us  then 
Away  from  this  cold  earth, 

And  look  into  thy  azure  breast, 

For  seats  of  innocence  and  rest. 


THE  JOURNEY  OF  LIFE. 


BENEATH  the  waning  moon  I  walk  at  night, 
And  muse  on  human  life— for  all  around 

Are  dim  uncertain  shapes  that  cheat  the  sight, 
And  pitfalls  lurk  in  shade  along  the  ground, 

And  broken  gleams  of  brightness,  here  and 
there, 

Glance  through,  and  leave  unwarmed  the  death- 
like air. 

The  trampled  earth  returns  a  sound  of  fear — 
A  hollow  sound,  as  if  I  walked  on  tombs ; 

And  lights,  that  tell  of  cheerful  homes,  appear, 
Far  off,  and  die  like  hope  amid  the  glooms. 

A  mournful  wind  across  the  landscape  flies, 

And  the  wide  atmosphere  is  full  of  sighs. 

And  I,  with  faltering  footsteps,  journey  on, 
Watching  the  stars  that  roll  the  hours  away, 

Till  the  faint  light  that  guides  me  now  is  gone, 
And,  like  another  life,  the  glorious  day 

Shall  open  o'er  me  from  the  empyreal  height, 

With  warmth,  and  certainty,  and  boundless 
light. 


SONNET— TO 


Ay,  thou  art  for  the  grave  ;  thy  glances  shine 
Too  brightly  to  shine  long  ;  another  Spring 
Shall  deck  her  for  men's  eyes, — but  not  for 
thine — 

Sealed  in  a  sleep  which  knows  no  wakening. 
The  fields  for  thee  have  no  medicinal  leaf, 

And  the  vexed  ore  no  mineral  of  power  ; 
And  they  who  love  thee  wait  in  anxious  grief 

Till  the  slow  plague  shall  bring  the  fatal  hour. 
Glide  softly  to  thy  rest  then  ;  Death  should 
come 

Gently,  to  one  of  gentle  mould  like  thee, 
As  light  winds  wandering  through  groves  of 
bloom 

Detach  the  delicate  blossom  from  the  tree. 
Close  thy  sweet  eyes,  calmly,  and  without  pain  ; 
And  we  will  trust  in  God  to  see  thee  yet  again. 
18 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS. 


The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of 
the  year, 

Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  mead- 
ows brown  and  sear. 

Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  withered 
leaves  lie  dead  ; 

They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the 
rabbit's  tread. 

The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the 
shrubs  the  jay, 

And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow,  through 
all  the  gloomy  day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers, 

that  lately  sprang  and  stood 
In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous 

sisterhood  ? 

Alas  !  they  all  are  in  their  graves,  the  gentle 

race  of  flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and 

good  of  ours. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS,  275 


The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie,  but  the  cold 

November  rain, 
Calls  not,  from  out  the  gloomy  earth,  the  lovely 

ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished 
long  ago, 

And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the 

summer  glow  ; 
But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in 

the  wood, 

And  the  yellow  sun-flower  by  the  brook  in  au- 
tumn beauty  stood, 

Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as 
falls  the  plague  on  men, 

And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone, 
from  upland,  glade,  and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as 

still  such  days  will  come, 
To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their 

winter  home  ; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard, 

though  all  the  trees  are  still, 
And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of 

the  rill, 

The  south  wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose 

fragrance  late  he  bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the 

stream  no  more. 


276 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful 

beauty  died, 
The  fair,  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded 

by  my  side  : 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the 

forest  cast  the  leaf, 
And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a 

life  so  brief: 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that  young 

friend  of  ours, 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with 

the  flowers. 


HYMN  TO  DEATH. 


Oh  !  could  I  hope  the  wise  and  pure  in  heart 
Might  hear  my  song  without  a  frown,  nor  deem 
My  voice  unworthy  of  the  theme  it  tries, — 
I  would  take  up  the  hymn  to  Death,  and  say 
To  the  grim  power,  The  world  hath  slandered 
thee 

And  mocked  thee.     On  thy  dim  and  shadowy 
brow 

They  place  an  iron  crown,  and  call  the  king 
Of  terrors,  and  the  spoiler  of  the  world, 
Deadly  assassin,  that  strik'st  down  the  fair, 
The  loved,  the  good — that  breath'st  upon  the 
lights 

Of  virtue  set  along  the  vale  of  life, 
And  they  go  out  in  darkness.    I  am  come, 
Not  with  reproaches,  not  with  cries  and  prayers, 
Such  as  have  stormed  thy  stern  insensible  ear 
From  the  beginning.    I  am  come  to  speak 
Thy  praises.    True  it  is,  that  I  have  wept 
Thy  conquests,  and  may  weep  them  yet  again  : 
And  thou  from  some  I  love  wilt  take  a  life 


278 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Dear  to  me  as  my  own.    Yet  while  the  spell 
Is  on  my  spirit,  and  I  talk  with  thee 
In  sight  of  all  thy  trophies,  face  to  face, 
Meet  is  it  that  my  voice  should  utter  forth 
Thy  nobler  triumphs  :  I  will  teach  the  world 
To  thank  thee. — Who  are  thine  accusers  ? — ■ 
Who? 

The  living  ! — they  who  never  felt  thy  power, 
And  know  thee  not.    The  curses  of  the  wretch 
Whose  crimes  are  ripe,  his  sufferings  when  thy 
hand 

Is  on  him,  and  the  hour  he  dreads  is  come, 
Are  writ  among  thy  praises.    But  the  good — 
Does  he  whom  thy  kind  hand  dismissed  to  peace, 
Upbraid  the  gentle  violence  that  took  off 
His  fetters,  and  unbarred  his  prison  cell  ? 

Raise  then  the  Hymn  to  Death.  Deliverer! 
God  hath  anointed  thee  to  free  the  oppressed 
And  crush  the  oppressor.    When  the  armed 
chief, 

The  conqueror  of  nations,  walks  the  world, 
And  it  is  changed  beneath  his  feet,  and  all 
Its  kingdoms  melt  into  one  mighty  realm — 
Thou,  while  his  head  is  loftiest,  and  his  heart 
Blasphemes,  imagining  his  own  right  hand 
Almighty,  sett'st  upon  him  thy  stern  grasp, 
And  the  strong  links  of  that  tremendous  chain 
That  bound  mankind  are  crumbled  ;  thou  dost 
break 

Sceptre  and  crown,  and  beat  his  throne  to  dust. 


HYMN  TO  DEATH. 


279 


Then  the  earth  shouts  with  gladness,  and  her 
tribes 

Gather  within  their  ancient  bounds  again. 
Else  had  the  mighty  of  the  olden  time, 
Nimrod,  Sesostris,  or  the  youth  who  feigned 
His  birth  from  Libyan  Ammon,  smote  even  now 
The  nations  with  a  rod  of  iron,  and  driven 
Their  chariot  o'er  our  necks.  Thou  dost  avenge, 
In  thy  good  time,  the  wrongs  of  those  who  know 
No  other  friend.    Nor  dost  thou  interpose 
Only  to  lay  the  sufferer  asleep, 
Where  he  who  made  him  wretched  troubles  not 
His  rest — thou  dost  strike  down  his  tyrant  too. 
Oh,  there  is  joy  when  hands  that  held  the  scourge 
Drop  lifeless,  and  the  pitiless  heart  is  cold. 
Thou  too  dost  purge  from  earth  its  horrible 
And  old  idolatries  ; — from  the  proud  fanes 
Each  to  his  grave  their  priests  go  out,  till  none 
Is  left  to  teach  their  worship  ;  then  the  fires 
Of  sacrifice  are  chilled,  and  the  green  moss 
O'ercreeps  their  altars  ;  the  fallen  images 
Cumber  the  weedy  courts,  and  for  loud  hymns, 
Chanted  by  kneeling  crowds,  the  chiding  winds 
Shriek  in  the  solitary  aisles.    When  he 
Who  gives  his  life  to  guilt,  and  laughs  at  all 
The  laws  that  God  or  man  has  made,  and  round 
Hedges  his  seat   with  power,  and   shines  in 
wealth, — 

Lifts  up  his  atheist  front  to  scoff  at  Heaven, 
And  celebrates  his  shame  in  open  day, 


28o 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Thou,  in  the  pride  of  all  his  crimes,  cutt'st  off 
The  horrible  example.    Touched  by  thine, 
The  extortioner's  hard  hand  foregoes  the  gold 
Wrung  from  the  o'er-worn  poor.    The  perjurer, 
Whose  tongue  was  lithe,  e'en  now,  and  voluble 
Against  his  neighbor's  life,  and  he  who  laughed 
And  leaped  for  joy  to  see  a  spotless  fame 
Blasted  before  his  own  foul  calumnies, 
Are  smit  with  deadly  silence.    He,  who  sold 
His  conscience  to  preserve  a  worthless  life, 
Even  while  he  hugs  himself  on  his  escape, 
Trembles,  as,  doubly  terrible,  at  length, 
Thy  steps  o'ertake  him,  and  there  is  no  time 
For  parley — nor  will  bribes  unclench  thy  grasp. 
Oft,  too,  dost  thou  reform  thy  victim,  long 
Ere  his  last  hour.    And  when  the  reveller, 
Mad  in  the  chase  of  pleasure,  stretches  on, 
And  strains  each  nerve,  and  clears  the  path  of  life 
Like  wind,  thou  point'sthim  to  the  dreadful  goal, 
And  shak'st  thy  hour-glass  in  his  reeling  eye, 
And  check'st  him  in  mid  course.    Thy  skeleton 
hand 

Shows  to  the  faint  of  spirit  the  right  path, 
And  he  is  warned,  and  fears  to  step  aside. 
Thou  sett'st  between  the  ruffian  and  his  crime 
Thy  ghastly  countenance,  and  his  slack  hand 
Drops  the  drawn  knife.    But,  oh,  most  fearfully 
Dost  thou  show  forth  Heaven's  justice,  when  thy 
shafts 

Drink  up  the  ebbing  spirit — then  the  hard 


HYMN  TO  DEATH. 


281 


Of  heart  and  violent  of  hand  restores 
The  treasure  to  the  friendless  wretch  he  wronged . 
Then  from  the  writhing  bosom  thou  dost  pluck 
The  guilty  secret  ;  lips,  for  ages  sealed, 
Are  faithless  to  the  dreadful  trust  at  length, 
And  give  it  up  ;  the  felon's  latest  breath 
Absolves  the  innocent  man  who  bears  his  crime  ; 
The  slanderer,  horror  smitten,  and  in  tears, 
Recalls  the  deadly  obloquy  he  forged 
To  work  his  brother's  ruin.    Thou  dost  make 
Thy  penitent  victim  utter  to  the  air 
The  dark  conspiracy  that  strikes  at  life, 
And  aims  to  whelm  the  laws  ;  ere  yet  the  hour 
Is  come,  and  the  dread  sign  of  murder  given. 
Thus,  from  the  first  of  time,  hast  thou  been 
found 

On  virtue's  side  ;  the  wicked,  but  for  thee, 
Had  been  too  strong  for  the  good  ;  the  great  of 
earth 

Had  crushed  the  weak  forever.     Schooled  in 
guile 

For  ages,  while  each  passing  year  had  brought 
Its  baneful  lesson,  they  had  filled  the  world 
With  their  abominations  ;  while  its  tribes, 
Trodden  to  earth,  imbruted,  and  despoiled, 
Had  knelt  to  them  in  worship  ;  sacrifice 
Had  smoked  on  many  an  altar,  temple  roofs 
Had  echoed  with  the  blasphemous  prayer  and 
hymn  : 

But  thou,  the  great  reformer  of  the  world, 


282 


BRYANTS  POEMS. 


Tak'st  off  the  sons  of  violence  and  fraud 
In  their  green  pupilage,  their  lore  half  learned — . 
Ere  guilt  has  quite  o'errun  the  simple  heart 
God  gave  them  at  their  birth,  and  blotted  out 
His  image.    Thou  dost  mark  them,  flushed  with 
hope, 

As  on  the  threshold  of  their  vast  designs 
Doubtful  and  loose  they  stand,  and  strik'st  them 
down. 


Alas,  I  little  thought  that  the  stern  power 
Whose  fearful  praise  I  sung,  would  try  me  thus 
Before  the  strain  was  ended.    It  must  cease — 
For  he  is  in  his  grave  who  taught  my  youth 
The  art  of  verse,  and  in  the  bud  of  life 
Offered  me  to  the  muses.    Oh,  cut  off 
Untimely  !  when  thy  reason  in  its  strength, 
Ripened  by  years  of  toil  and  studious  search 
And  watch  of  Nature's  silent  lessons,  taught 
Thy  hand  to  practise  best  the  lenient  art 
To  which  thou  gavest  thy  laborious  days, 
And,  last,  thy  life.    And,  therefore,  when  the 
earth 

Received  thee,  tears  were  in  unyielding  eyes 
And  on  hard  cheeks,  and  they  who  deemed  thy 
skill 

Delayed  their  death-hour,  shuddered  and  turned 
pale 


HYMN  TO  DEATH. 


283 


When  thou  wert  gone.    This  faltering  verse, 

which  thou 
Shalt  not,  as  wont,  o'erlook,  is  all  I  have 
To  offer  at  thy  grave — this — and  the  hope 
To  copy  thy  example,  and  to  leave 
A  name  of  which  the  wretched  shall  not  think 
As  of  an  enemy's,  whom  they  forgive 
As  all  forgive  the  dead.    Rest,  therefore,  thou 
Whose  early  guidance  trained  my  infant  steps — 
Rest,  in  the  bosom  of  God,  till  the  brief  sleep 
Of  death  is  over,  and  a  happier  life 
Shall  dawn  to  waken  thine  insensible  dust. 
Now  thou  art  not — and  yet  the  men  whose 
guilt 

Has  wearied  Heaven  for  vengeance  —  he  who 
bears 

False  witness — he  who  takes  the  orphan's  bread, 

And  robs  the  widow — he  who  spreads  abroad 

Polluted  hands  in  mockery  of  prayer, 

Are  left  to  cumber  earth.    Shuddering  I  look 

On  what  is  written,  yet  I  blot  not  out 

The  desultory  numbers — let  them  stand, 

The  record  of  an  idle  revery. 


"  EARTH'S  CHILDREN  CLEAVE  TO 
EARTH." 


Earth's  children  cleave  to  Earth — her  frail 

Decaying  children  dread  decay. 
Yon  wreath  of  mist  that  leaves  the  vale, 

And  lessens  in  the  morning  ray  : 
Look,  how,  by  mountain  rivulet, 

It  lingers,  as  it  upward  creeps, 
And  clings  to  fern  and  copsewood  set 

Along  the  green  and  dewy  steeps  : 
Clings  to  the  fragrant  kalmia,  clings 

To  precipices  fringed  with  grass, 
Dark  maples  where  the  wood-thrush  sings, 

And  bowers  of  fragrant  sassafras. 
Yet  all  in  vain — it  passes  still 

From  hold  to  hold,  it  cannot  stay, 
And  in  the  very  beams  that  fill 

The  world  with  glory,  wastes  away. 
Till,  parting  from  the  mountain's  brow, 

It  vanishes  from  human  eye, 
And  that  which  sprung  of  earth  is  now 

A  portion  of  the  glorious  sky. 


TO  A  WATERFOWL. 


WHITHER,  'midst  falling  dew, 
While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of 
day, 

Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 
Thy  solitary  way  ! 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 
Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  painted  on  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side  ? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast, — 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air, — 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 


286 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end  ; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows  ;  reeds  shall  bend, 

Soon,  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallowed  up  thy  form  ;  yet,  on  my  heart 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 
Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain 
flight, 

In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone 
Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 


Once  this  soft  turf,  this  rivulet's  sands, 
Were  trampled  by  a  hurrying  crowd, 

And  fiery  hearts  and  armed  hands 
Encountered  in  the  battle  cloud. 

Ah  !  never  shall  the  land  forget 

How  gushed  the  life-blood  of  her  brave — 
Gushed,  warm  with  hope  and  valor  yet, 

Upon  the  soil  they  fought  to  save. 

Now  all  is  calm  and  fresh  and  still, 

Alone  the  chirp  of  flitting  bird, 
And  talk  of  children  on  the  hill, 

And  bell  of  wandering  kine,  are  heard. 

No  solemn  host  goes  trailing  by 

The  black-mouthed  gun  and  staggering  wain 
Men  start  not  at  the  battle  cry, 

Oh,  be  it  never  heard  again  !    ,  ■ 

Soon  rested  those  who  fought — but  thou, 
Who  minglest  in  the  harder  strife 

For  truths  which  men  receive  not  now, 
Thy  warfare  only  ends  with  life. 
19 


290 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


A  friendless  warfare  !  lingering  long 
Through  weary  day  and  weary  year  ; 

A  wild  and  many-weaponed  throng 
Hang  on  thy  front  and  flank  and  rear. 

Yet  nerve  thy  spirit  to  the  proof, 
And  blench  not  at  thy  chosen  lot  ; 

The  timid  good  may  stand  aloof, 

The  sage  may  frown — yet  faint  thou  not  ! 

Nor  heed  the  shaft  too  surely  cast, 
The  hissing,  stinging  bolt  of  scorn  ; 

For  with  thy  side  shall  dwell,  at  last, 
The  victory  of  endurance  born. 

Truth,  crushed  to  earth,  shall  rise  again  ; 

The  eternal  years  of  God  are  her's  ; 
But  Error,  wounded,  writhes  with  pain, 

And  dies  among  his  worshippers. 

Yea,  though  thou  lie  upon  the  dust, 

When  those  who  helped  thee  flee  in  fear, 

Die  full  of  hope  and  manly  trust, 
Like  those  who  fell  in  battle  here. 

Another  hand  thy  sword  shall  wield, 
Another  hand  the  standard  wave, 

Till  from  the  trumpet's  mouth  is  pealed 
The  blast  of  triumph  o'er  thy  grave  ! 


AN  INCIDENT  AT  SORRENTO. 


Fair  is  thy  site,  Sorrento  !  green  thy  shore  ! 
Black  crags  behind  thee  pierce  the  clear  blue 
skies, 

The  sea,  whose  borders  ruled  the  world  of  yore, 
As  clear,  and  bluer  still,  before  thee  lies. 

Vesuvius  smokes  in  sight,  whose  fount  of  fire, 
Out-gushing,  drowned  the  cities  on  his  steeps  ; 

And  murmuring  Naples,  spire  overtopping  spire, 
Sits  on  the  slope  beyond,  where  Virgil  sleeps. 

Here  doth  the  earth  with  flowers  of  every  hue 
Heap  her  green  breast,  when  April's  sun  is 
bright — 

Flowers  of  the  morning-red,  or  ocean-blue, 
Or  like  the  mountain  frost  of  silvery  white. 

Currents  of  fragrance  from  the  orange  tree, 
And  sward  of  violets,  breathing  to  and  fro, 

Mingle,  and  wandering  out  upon  the  sea, 
Refresh  the  idle  boatman  where  they  blow. 


292 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Yet  even  here,  as  under  harsher  climes, 

Tears  o'er  the  loved  and  early  lost  are  shed, 

That  soft  air  saddens  with  the  funeral  chimes, 
Those  shining  flowers  are  gathered  for  the 
dead. 

Here  once  a  child,  a  playful,  smiling  one, 
All  the  day  long  caressing  and  caressed, 

Died,  when  his  little  tongue  had  just  begun 
To  lisp  the  names  of  those  he  loved  the  best. 

The  father  strove  his  struggling  grief  to  quell ; 

The  mother  wept,  as  mothers  use  to  weep  ; 
Two  little  sisters  wearied  them  to  tell 

When  their  dear  Carlo  would  awake  from 
sleep. 

Within  an  inner  room  his  couch  they  spread, 
His  funeral  couch  ;  with  mingled  grief  and 
love, 

They  laid  a  crown  of  roses  on  his  head, 

And    murmured,   "  brighter    is    his  crown 
above." 

They  scattered  round  him,  on  his  snowy  sheet, 
Laburnum's  strings  of  sunny-colored  gems, 

Sad  hyacinth  and  violet  dim  and  sweet, 

And  orange  blossoms  on  their  dark  green 
stems. 


AN  INCIDENT  AT  SORRENTO. 


293 


And  now  the  hour  is  come,  —  the  priest  is 
there, — 

Torches  are  lit, — the  bells  are  tolled, — they 
g°, 

With  solemn  rites  of  blessing  and  of  prayer, 
To  lay  those  dear  remains  in  earth  below. 

The  door  is  opened — hark  that  quick  glad  cry — 
' 1  Carlo  has  waked  —  has  waked,  and  is  at 
play  !  " 

The  little  sisters  leap  and  laugh,  and  try 

To  climb  the  couch  on  which  the  infant  lay. 

And  there  he  sits,  alive,  and  gayly  shakes 

In  his  full  hands,  the  blossoms  blue  and  white, 
And  smiles  with  winking  eyes,  like  one  who 
wakes 

From  a  deep  slumber  at  the  morning  light. 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 


FOUNTAIN,  that  springest  on  this  grassy  slope, 
Thy  quick  cool  murmur  mingles  pleasantly, 
With  the  cool  sound  of  breezes  in  the  beech, 
Above  me  in  the  noontide.    Thou  dost  wear 
No  stain  of  thy  dark  birthplace  ;  gushing  up 
From  the  red  mould  and  slimy  roots  of  earth, 
Thou  flashest  in  the  sun.    The  mountain  air, 
In  winter,  is  not  clearer,  nor  the  dew 
That  shines  on  mountain  blossom.    Thus  doth 
God 

Bring,  from  the  dark  and  foul,  the  pure  and 
bright. 

This  tangled  thicket  on  the  bank  above 
Thy  basin,  how  thy  waters  keep  it  green  ! 
For  thou  dost  feed  the  roots  of  the  wild  vine 
That  trails  all  over  it,  and  to  the  twigs 
Ties  fast  her  clusters.    There  the  spice-bush 
lifts 

rIer  leafy  lances  ;  the  viburnum  there, 
/aler  of  foliage,  to  the  sun  holds  up 
Her  circlet  of  green  berries.     In  and  out 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 


295 


The  chipping  sparrow,  in  her  coat  of  brown, 
Steals  silently,  lest  I  should  mark  her  nest. 

Not  such  thou  wert  of  yore,  ere  yet  the  ax 
Had  smitten  the  old  woods.    Then  hoary  trunks 
Of  oak,  and  plane,  and  hickory,  o'er  thee  held 
A  mighty  canopy.    When  April  winds 
Grew  soft,  the  maple  burst  into  a  flush 
Of  scarlet  flowers.    The  tulip-tree,  high  up, 
Opened,  in  airs  of  June,  her  multitude 
Of  golden  chalices  to  humming  birds 
And  silken-winged  insects  of  the  sky. 

Frail  wood-plants  clustered  round  thy  edge  in 
Spring. 

The  liverleaf  put  forth  her  sister  blooms 
Of  faintest  blue.    Here  the  quick-footed  wolf, 
Passing  to  lap  thy  waters,  crushed  the  flower 
Of  Sanguinaria,  from  whose  brittle  stem 
The  red  drops  fell  like  blood.   The  deer,  too,  left 
Her  delicate  foot-print  in  the  soft  moist  mould, 
And  on  the  fallen  leaves.    The  slow-paced  bear, 
In  such  a  sultry  summer  noon  as  this, 
Stopped  at  thy  stream,  and  drank,  and  leaped 
across. 

But  thou  hast  histories  that  stir  the  heart 
With  deeper  feeling  ;  while  I  look  on  thee 
They  rise  before  me.    I  behold  the  scene 
Hoary  again  with  forests  ;  I  behold 
The  Indian  warrior,  whom  a  hand  unseen 
Has  smitten  with  his  death-wound  in  the  woods, 
Creep  slowly  to  thy  well-known  rivulet, 


296 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


And  slake  his  death-thirst.     Hark,  that  quick 

fierce  cry- 
That  rends  the  utter  silence  ;  'tis  the  whoop 
Of  battle,  and  a  throng  of  savage  men 
With  naked  arms  and  faces  stained  like  blood, 
Fill  the  green  wilderness  ;  the  long  bare  arms 
Are  heaved    aloft,  bows  twang   and  arrows 

stream ; 

Each  makes  a  tree  his  shield,  and  every  tree 
Sends  forth  its  arrow.    Fierce  the  fight  and 
short, 

As  is  the  whirlwind.    Soon  the  conquerors 
And  conquered  vanish,  and  the  dead  remain 
Gashed  horribly  with  tomahawks.    The  woods 
Are  still  again,  the  frighted  bird  comes  back 
And  plumes  her  wings  ;  but  thy  sweet  waters 
run 

Crimson  with  blood.    Then,  as  the  sun  goes 
down, 

Amid  the  deepening  twilight  I  descry 
Figures  of  men  that  crouch  and  creep  unheard, 
And    bear  away  the  dead.    The  next  day's 
shower 

Shall  wash  the  tokens  of  the  fight  away. 

I  look  again — a  hunter's  lodge  is  built, 
With  poles  and  boughs,  beside  thy  crystal  well, 
While  the  meek  autumn  stains  the  woods  with 
gold, 

And  sheds  his  golden  sunshine.  To  the  door 
The  red  man  slowly  drags  the  enormous  bear 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 


297 


Slain  in  the  chestnut  thicket,  or  flings  down 
The  deer  from  his  strong  shoulders.  Shaggy 
fells 

Of  wolf  and  cougar  hang  upon  the  walls, 
And  loud  the  black-eyed  Indian  maidens  laugh, 
That  gather,  from  the  rustling  heaps  of  leaves, 
The  hickory's  white  nuts,  and  the  dark  fruit 
That  falls  from  the  gray  butternut's  long  boughs. 

So  centuries  passed  by,  and  still  the  woods 
Blossomed  in  spring,  and  reddened  when  the 
year 

Grew  chill,  and  glistened  in  the  frozen  rains 
Of  winter,  till  the  white  man  swung  the  ax 
Beside  thee — signal  of  a  mighty  change. 
Then  all  around  was  heard  the  crash  of  trees, 
Trembling  awhile  and  rushing  to  the  ground, 
The  low  of  ox,  and  shouts  of  men  who  fired 
The  brushwood,  or  who  tore  the  earth  with 
ploughs. 

The  grain  sprang  thick  and  tall,  and  hid  in  green 
The  blackened  hillside  ;  ranks  of  spiky  maize 
Rose  like  a  host  embattled  ;  the  buckwheat 
Whitened    broad  acres,   sweetening  with  its 
flowrers 

The  August  wind.    White  cottages  were  seen 
With  rose-trees  at  the  windows ;  barns  from 
which 

Swelled  loud  and  shrill  the  cry  of  chanticleer  ; 
Pastures  where  rolled  and  neighed  the  lordly 
horse, 


2y8 


BRYANT'S  POEMS, 


And  white  flocks  browsed  and  bleated.    A  rich 
turf 

Of  grasses  brought  from  faro'ercrept  thy  bank, 
Spotted  with  the  white  clover.    Blue-eyed  girls 
Brought  pails,  and  dipped  them  in  thy  crystal 
pool  ; 

And  children,  ruddy  cheeked  and  flaxen-haired, 
Gathered  the  glistening  cowslip  from  thy  edge. 
Since  then,  what  steps  have  trod  thy  border  ! 
Here 

On  thy  green  bank,  the  woodman  of  the  swamp 
Has  laid  his  ax,  the  reaper  of  the  hill 
His  sickle,  as  they  stooped  to  taste  thy  stream. 
The  sportsman,  tired  with  wandering  in  the  still 
September  noon,  has  bathed  his  heated  brow 
In  thy  cool  current.    Shouting  boys,  let  loose 
For  a  wild  holiday,  have  quaintly  shaped 
Into  a  cup  the  folded  linden  leaf, 
And  dipped  thy  sliding  crystal.  From  the  wars 
Returning,  the  plumed  soldier  by  thy  side 
Has  sat,  and  mused  how  pleasant  'twere  to  dwell 
In  such  a  spot,  and  be  as  free  as  thou, 
And  move  for  no  man's  bidding  more.  At  eve, 
When  thou  wert  crimson  with  the  crimson  sky, 
Lovers  have  gazed  upon  thee,  and  have  thought 
Their  mingled  lives  should  flow  as  peacefully 
And  brightly  as  thy  waters.     Here  the  sage, 
Gazing  into  thy  self-replenished  depth, 
Has  seen  eternal  order  circumscribe 
And  bind  th.e  motions  of  eternal  change, 


THE  FOUNTAIN.  299 
■ 

And  from  the  gushing  of  thy  simple  fount 
Has  reasoned  to  the  mighty  universe. 

Is  there  no  other  change  for  thee,  that  lurks 
Among  the  future  ages  ?    Will  not  man 
Seek  out  strange  arts  to  wither  and  deform 
The  pleasant  landscape  which  thou  makest  green  ? 
Or  shall  the  veins  that  feed  thy  constant  stream 
Be  choked  in  middle  earth,  and  flow  no  more 
Forever,  that  the  water-plants  along 
Thy  channel  perish,  and  the  bird  in  vain 
Alight  to  drink  ?    Haply  shall  these  green  hills 
Sink,  with  the  lapse  of  years,  into  the  gulf 
Of  ocean  waters,  and  thy  source  be  lost 
Amidst  the  bitter  brine  ?    Or  shall  they  rise, 
Upheaved  in  broken  cliffs  and  airy  peaks, 
Haunts  of  the  eagle  and  the  snake,  and  thou 
Gush  midway  from  the  bare  and  barren  steep  ? 


THE  WINDS. 


i. 

Ye  winds,  ye  unseen  currents  of  the  air, 

Softly  ye  played  a  few  brief  hours  ago  ; 
Ye  bore  the  murmuring  bee  ;  ye  tossed  the 
hair 

O'er  maiden  cheeks,  that  took  a  fresher  glow  ; 
Ye  rolled  the  round  white  cloud  through  depths 
of  blue  ; 

Ye  shook  from  shaded  flowers  the  lingering  dew  ; 
Before  you  the  catalpa's  blossoms  flew, 

Light  blossoms,  dropping  on  the  grass  like 
snow. 

II. 

How  are  ye  changed  !    Ye  take  the  cataract's 
sound  ; 

Ye  take  the  whirlpool's  fury  and  its  might  ; 
The  mountain  shudders  as  ye  sweep  the  ground  ; 

The  valley  woods  lie  prone  beneath  your  flight. 
The  clouds  before  you  shoot  like  eagles  past ; 
The  homes  of  men  are  rocking  in  your  blast ; 
Ye  lift  the  roofs  like  autumn  leaves,  and  cast, 

Skyward,  the  whirling  fragments  out  of  sight. 


THE  WINDS. 


301 


III. 

The  weary  fowls  of  heaven  make  wing  in  vain, 
To  'scape  your  wrath ;  ye  seize  and  dash  them 
dead. 

Against  the  earth  ye  drive  the  roaring  rain  ; 

The  harvest  field  becomes  a  river's  bed  ; 
And  torrents  tumble  from  the  hills  around, 
Plains  turn  to  lakes,  and  villages  are  drowned, 
And  wailing  voices,  midst  the  tempest's  sound, 

Rise,  as  the  rushing  waters  swell  and  spread. 

IV. 

Ye  dart  upon  the  deep,  and  straight  is  heard 
A  wilder  roar,  and  men  grow  pale,  and  pray ; 

Ye  fling  its  floods  around  you,  as  a  bird 

Flings  o'er  his  shivering  plumes  the  fountain's 
spray. 

See  !  to  the  breaking  mast  the  sailor  clings ; 
Ye  scoop  the  ocean  to  its  briny  springs, 
And  take  the  mountain  billow  on  your  wings. 
And  pile  the  wreck  of  navies  round  the  bay. 

V. 

Why  rage  ye  thus  ? — no  strife  for  liberty 

Has  made    you    mad  ;    no    tyrant,  strong 

through  fear, 
Has  chained  your  pinions  till  ye  wrenched  them 

free, 

.  And  rushed  into  the  unmeasured  atmosphere  : 


302  BRYANT'S  POEMS. 

For  ye  were  born  in  freedom  where  ye  blow  ; 
Free  o'er  the  mighty  deep  to  come  and  go  ; 
Earth's  solemn  woods  were  yours,  her  wastes  of 
snow, 

Her  isles  where  summer  blossoms  all  the  year. 
VI. 

O  ye  wild  winds  a  mightier  Power  than  yours 
In  chains  upon  the  shore  of  Europe  lies  ; 

The  sceptred  throng,  whose  fetters  he  endures, 
Watch  his  mute  throes  with  terror  in  their 
eyes  : 

And  armed  warriors  all  around  him  stand, 
And,  as  he  struggles,  tighten  every  band, 
And  lift  the  heavy  spear,  with  threatening  hand, 
To  pierce  the  victim,  should  he  strive  to  rise. 

VII. 

Yet  oh,  when  that  wronged  Spirit  of  our  race 
Shall  break,  as  soon  he  must,  his  long-worn 
chains, 

And  leap  in  freedom  from  his  prison-place, 

Lord  of  his  ancient  hills  and  fruitful  plains, 
Let  him  not  rise,  like  these  mad  winds  of  air, 
To  waste  the  loveliness  that  time  could  spare, 
To  fill  the  earth  with  woe,  and  blot  her  fair 
Unconscious  breast  with  blood  from  human 
veins. 


THE  WINDS, 


VIII. 

But  may  he  like  the  Spring-time  come  abroad, 
Who  crumbles  winter's  gyves  with  gentle 
might, 

When  in  the  genial  breeze,  the  breath  of  God, 
Come  spouting  up   the  unsealed  springs  to 
light  ; 

Flowers  start  from  their  dark  prisons  at  his  feet, 
The  woods,  long  dumb,  awake  to  hymnings 
sweet, 

And  morn  and  eve,  whose  glimmerings  almost 
meet, 

Crowd  back  to  narrow  bounds  the  ancient 
night. 


THE  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  BOYS. 


HERE  we  halt  our  march,  and  pitch  our  tent, 

On  the  rugged  forest  ground, 
And  light  our  fire  with  the  branches  rent, 

By  winds  from  the  beeches  round. 
Wild  storms  have  torn  this  ancient  wood, 

But  a  wilder  is  at  hand, 
With  hail  of  iron  and  rain  of  blood, 

To  sweep  and  scath  the  land. 

II. 

How  the  dark  waste  rings  with  voices  shrill, 

That  startle  the  sleeping  bird, 
To-morrow  eve  must  the  voice  be  still, 

And  the  step  must  fall  unheard. 
The  Briton  lies  by  the  blue  Champlain, 

In  Ticonderoga's  towers, 
And  ere  the  sun  rise  twice  again, 

The  towers  and  the  lake  are  ours. 


THE  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  BOYS. 


III. 

Fill  up  the  bowl  from  the  brook  that  glides, 
Where  the  fireflies  light  the  brake  ; 

A  ruddier  juice  the  Briton  hides, 
In  his  fortress  by  the  lake. 

Build  high  the  fire,  till  the  panther  leap 
From  his  lofty  perch  in  fright, 

And  we'll  strengthen  our  weary  arms  with 
sleep, 

For  the  deeds  of  to-morrow  night. 
20 


THE  DEATH  OF  SCHILLER. 


'TIS  said,  when  Schiller's  death  drew  nigh, 
The  wish  possessed  his  mighty  mind, 

To  wander  forth  wherever  lie 

The  homes  and  haunts  of  humankind. 

Then  strayed  the  poet,  in  his  dreams, 
By  Rome  and  Egypt's  ancient  graves  ; 

Went  up  the  New  World's  forest  streams, 
Stood  in  the  Hindoo's  temple-caves. 

Walked  with  the  Pawnee,  fierce  and  stark, 
The  bearded  Tartar,  'midst  his  herds, 

The  peering  Chinese,  and  the  dark 
False  Malay  uttering  gentle  words. 

How  could  he  rest  ?  even  then  he  trod 
The  threshold  of  the  world  unknown  ; 

Already,  from  the  seat  of  God, 

A  ray  upon  his  garments  shone  ; — ■ 


THE  DEATH  OF  SCHILLER. 


Shone  and  awoke  that  strong  desire 

For  love  and  knowledge  reached  not  here, 

Till  death  set  free  his  soul  of  fire, 
To  plunge  into  its  fitting  sphere. 

Then — who  shall  tell  how  deep,  how  bright, 
The  abyss  of  glory  opened  round  ? 

How  thought  and  feeling  flowed  like  light, 
Through  ranks  of  being  without  bound  ? 


LIFE 


Oh  life  !  I  breathe  thee  in  the  breeze, 
I  feel  thee  bounding  in  my  veins, 

I  see  thee  in  these  stretching  trees, 

These  flowers,  this  still  rock's  mossy  stains. 

This  stream  of  odors  flowing  by 

From  clover-field  and  clumps  of  pine, 

This  music,  thrilling  all  the  sky, 

From  all  the  morning  birds,  are  thine. 

Thou  fill'st  with  joy  this  little  one, 

That  leaps  and  shouts  beside  me  here, 

Where  Isar's  clay- white  rivulets  run 

Through  the  dark  woods  like  frighted  deer. 

Ah  !  must  thy  mighty  breath,  that  wakes 
Insect  and  bird,  and  flower  and  tree, 

From  the  low  trodden  dust,  and  makes 
Their  daily  gladness,  pass  from  me — - 


LIFE. 


Pass,  pulse  by  pulse,  till  o'er  the  ground 

These  limbs,  now  strong,  shall  creep  with  pain, 

And  this  fair  world  of  sight  and  sound 
Seem  fading  into  night  again  ? 

The  things,  oh  LIFE  !  thou  quickenest,  all 
Strive  upward  toward  the  broad  bright  sky, 

Upward  and  outward,  and  they  fall 
Back  to  earth's  bosom  when  they  die. 

All  that  have  borne  the  touch  of  death, 
All  that  shall  live,  lie  mingled  there, 

Beneath  that  veil  of  bloom  and  breath, 
That  living  zonejtwixt  earth  and  air. 

There  lies  my  chamber  dark  and  still, 

The  atoms  trampled  by  my  feet, 
There  wait,  to  take  the  place  I  fill 

In  the  sweet  air  and  sunshine  sweet. 

Well,  I  have  had  my  turn,  have  been 
Raised  from  the  darkness  of  the  clod, 

And  for  a  glorious  moment  seen 
The  brightness  of  the  skirts  of  God  ; 

And  knew  the  light  within  my  breast, 
Though  wavering  oftentimes  and  dim, 

The  power,  the  will,  that  never  rest, 
And  cannot  die,  were  all  from  him. 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Dear  child  !  I  know  that  thou  wilt  grieve, 
To  see  me  taken  from  thy  love, 

Wilt  seek  my  grave  at  Sabbath  eve, 
And  weep,  and  scatter  flowers  above, 

Thy  little  heart  will  soon  be  healed, 
And  being  shall  be  bliss,  till  thou 

To  younger  forms  of  life  must  yield, 
The  place  thou  fill'st  with  beauty  now. 

When  we  descend  to  dust  again, 
Where  will  the  final  dwelling  be, 

Of  Thought  and  all  its  memories  then, 
My  love  for  thee,  and  thine  for  me  ? 


A  PRESENTIMENT, 


"  Oh  father,  let  us  hence— for  hark, 
A  fearful  murmur  shakes  the  air  ; 

The  clouds  are  coming  swift  and  dark  ; — - 
What  horrid  shapes  they  wear  ! 

A  winged  giant  sails  the  sky  ; 

Oh  father,  father,  let  us  fly  !  " 

"  Hush,  child  ;  it  is  a  grateful  sound, 
That  beating  of  the  summer  shower — ■ 

Here,  where  the  boughs  hang  close  around, 
We'll  pass  a  pleasant  hour, 

Till  the  fresh  wind,  that  brings  the  rain, 

Has  swept  the  broad  heaven  clear  again." 

"  Nay,  father,  let  us  haste — for  see, 

That  horrid  thing  with  horned  brow, — 

His  wings  o'erhang  this  very  tree, 
He  scowls  upon  us  now  ; 

His  huge  black  arm  is  lifted  high  ; 

Oh  father,  father,  let  us  fly !  " 


12 


BRYANT'S  POEMS, 


"  Hush,  child  ;  "  but,  as  the  father  spoke, 
Downward  the  livid  firebolt  came, 

Close  to  his  ear  the  thunder  broke, 
And,  blasted  by  the  flame, 

The  child  lay  dead  ;  while,  dark  and  still, 

Swept  the  grim  cloud  along  the  hill. 


THE  FUTURE  LIFE. 


How  shall  I  know  thee  in  the  sphere  which  keeps 
The  disembodied  spirits  of  the  dead, 

When  all  of  thee  that  time  could  wither  sleeps 
And  perishes  among  the  dust  we  tread  ? 

For  I  shall  feel  the  sting  of  ceaseless  pain 
If  there  I  meet  thy  gentle  presence  not ; 

Nor  hear  the  voice  I  love,  nor  read  again 
In  thy  serenest  eyes  the  tender  thought. 

Will  not  thy  own  meek  heart  demand  me  there  ? 
That  heart  whose  fondest  throbs  to  me  were 
given  ? 

My  name  on  earth  was  ever  in  thy  prayer, 
Shall  it  be   banished   from  thy  tongue  in 
heaven  ? 

In  meadows  fanned  by  heaven's  life-breathing 
wind, 

In  the  resplendence  of  that  glorious  sphere, 


31.4 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


And  larger  movements  of  the  unfettered  mind, 
Wilt  thou  forget  the  love  that  joined  us  here  ? 

The  love  that  lived  through  all  the  stormy  past, 
And  meekly  with  my  harsher  nature  bore, 

And  deeper  grew,  and  tenderer  to  the  last, 
Shall  it  expire  with  life,  and  be  no  more  ? 

A  happier  lot  than  mine,  and  larger  light, 
Await  thee  there  ;  for  thou  hast  bowed  thy 
will 

In  cheerful  homage  to  the  rule  of  right, 
And  lovest  all,  and  renderest  good  for  ill. 

For  me,  the  sordid  cares  in  which  I  dwell, 
Shrink  and  consume  the  heart,  as  heat  the 
scroll ; 

And  wrath  hath  left  its  scar — that  fire  of  hell 
Has  left  its  frightful  scar  upon  my  soul. 

Yet,  though  thou  wear'st  the  glory  of  the  sky, 
Wilst  thou  not  keep  the  same  beloved  name, 

The  same  fair  thoughtful  brow,  and  gentle  eye, 
Lovelier  in  heaven's  sweet  climate,  yet  the 
same  ? 

Shalt  thou  not  teach  me,  in  that  calmer  home, 
The  wisdom  that  I  learned  so  ill  in  this — 

The  wisdom  which  is  love — till  I  become 
Thy  fit  companion  in  that  land  of  bliss  ? 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  COUNSEL. 


AMONG  our  hills  and  valleys,  I  have  known 
Wise  and  grave  men,  who,  while  their  diligent 
hands 

Tendered  or  gathered  in  the  fruits  of  earth, 
Were  reverent  learners  in  the  solemn  school 
Of  nature.    Not  in  vain  to  them  were  sent 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  or  the  vernal  shower 
That  darkened  the  brown  tilth,  or  snow  that 
beat 

On  the  white  winter  hills.    Each  brought,  in 
turn, 

Some  truth,  some  lesson  on  the  life  of  man, 
Or  recognition  of  the  Eternal  mind 
Who  veils  his  glory  with  the  elements. 

One  such  I  knew  long  since,  a  white-haired 
man, 

Pithy  of  speech,  and  merry  when  he  would  ; 
A  genial  optimist,  who  daily  drew 
From  what  he  saw  his  quaint  moralities. 
Kindly  he  held  communion,  though  so  old, 
With  me  a  dreaming  boy,  and  taught  me  much 
That  books  tell  not,  and  I  shall  ne'er  forget. 


31* 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


The  sun  of  May  was  bright  in  middle  heaven, 
And  steeped  the  sprouting  forests,  the  green 
hills 

And  emerald  wheat-fields,  in  his  yellow  light. 
Upon  the  apple-tree,  where  rosy  buds 
Stood  clustered,  ready  to  burst  forth  in  bloom, 
The  robin  warbled  forth  his  full  clear  note 
For  hours,  and  wearied  not.    Within  the  woods, 
Whose  young  and  half-transparent  leaves  scarce 
cast 

A  shade,  gay  circles  of  anemones 

Danced  on  their  stalks  ;  the  shadbush,  white 

with  flowers, 
Brightened  the  glens  ;  the  new  leaved  butternut 
And  quivering  poplar  to  the  roving  breeze 
Gave  a  balsamic  fragrance.    In  the  fields 
I  saw  the  pulses  of  the  gentle  wind 
On  the  young  grass.    My  heart  was  touched 

with  joy 

At  so  much  beauty,  flushing  every  hour 
Into  a  fuller  beauty  ;  but  my  friend, 
The  thoughtful  ancient,  standing  at  my  side, 
Gazed  on  it  mildly  sad.    I  asked  him  why. 

"  Well  may'st  thou  join  in  gladness, "  he  re- 
plied, 

"  With  the  glad  earth,  her  springing  plants  and 
flowers, 

And  this  soft  wind,  the  herald  of  the  green 
Luxuriant  summer.    Thou  art  young  like  them. 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  COUNSEL. 


3*7 


And  well  may'st  thou  rejoice.    But  while  the 
flight 

Of  seasons  fills  and  knits  thy  spreading  frame, 
It  withers  mine,  and  thins  my  hair,  and  dims 
These  eyes,  whose  fading  light  shall  soon  be 
quenched 

In  utter  darkness.    Hearest  thou  that  bird  ?  " 

I  listened,  and  from  midst  the  depth  of  woods 
Heard  the  love-signal  of  the  grouse,  that  wears 
A  sable  ruff  around  his  mottled  neck  ; 
Partridge  they  call  him  by  our  northern  streams, 
And  pheasant  by  the  Delaware.  He  beat 
'Gainst  his  barred  sides  his  speckled  wings,  and 
made 

A  sound  like  distant  thunder  ;  slow  the  strokes 
At  first,  then  fast  and  faster,  till  at  length 
They  passed  into  a  murmur  and  were  still. 

V  There  hast  thou,"  said  my  friend,  "  a  fitting 
type 

Of  human  life.    'Tis  an  old  truth,  I  know, 
But  images  like  these  revive  the  power 
Of  long  familiar  truths.    Slow  pass  our  days 
In  childhood,  and  the  hours  of  light  are  long 
Betwixt  the  morn  and  eve  ;  with  swifter  lapse 
They  glide  in  manhood,  and  in  age  they  fly  ; 
Till  days  and  seasons  flit  before  the  mind 
As  flit  the  snow-flakes  in  a  winter  ^torm, 
Seen  rather  than  distinguished.    Ah  \  I  seem 


BRYANT'S  POEMS, 


As  if  I  sat  within  a  helpless  bark, 
By  swiftly  running  waters  hurried  on 
To  shoot  some  mighty  cliff.    Along  the  banks 
Grove  after  grove,  rock  after  frowning  rock, 
Bare  sands  and  pleasant  homes,  and  flowery 
nooks, 

And  isles  and  whirlpools  in  the  stream,  appear 
Each  after  each,  but  the  devoted  skiff 
Darts  by  so  swiftly  that  their  images 
Dwell  not  upon  the  mind,  or  only  dwell 
In  dim  confusion  ;  faster  yet  I  sweep 
By  other  banks  and  the  great  gulf  is  near. 

"Wisely,  my  son,  while  yet  thy  days  are 
long, 

And  this  fair  change  of  seasons  passes  slow, 
Gather  and  treasure  up  the  good  they  yield — 
All  that  they  teach  of  virtue,  of  pure  thoughts 
And  kind  affections,  reverence  for  thy  God 
And  for  thy  brethren  ;  so  when  thou  shalt  come 
Into  these  barren  years,  thou  may'st  not  bring 
A  mind  unfurnished  and  a  withered  heart." 

Long  since  that  white-haired  ancient  slept — 
but  still, 

When  the  red  flower-buds  crowd  the  orchard 
bough, 

And  the  ruffed  grouse  is  drumming  far  within 
The  woods,  his  venerable  form  again 
Is  at  my  side,  his  voice  is  in  my  ear. 


THE  CHILD'S  FUNERAL. 


Fair  is  thy  site,  Sorrento,  green  thy  shore, 
Black  crags  behind  thee  pierce  the  clear  blue 
skies  ; 

The  sea,  whose  borderers  ruled  the  world  of 
yore, 

As  clear  and  bluer  still  before  thee  lies. 

Vesuvius  smokes  in  sight,  whose  fount  of  fire, 
Outgushing,  drowned  the  cities  on  his  steeps  ; 

And  murmuring  Naples,  spire  o'ertopping  spire, 
Sits  on  the  slope  beyond  where  Virgil  sleeps. 

Here  doth  the  earth,  with  flowers  of  every  hue, 
Heap  her  green  breast  when  April  suns  are 
bright, 

Flowers  of  the  morning-red,  or  ocean-blue, 
Or  like  the  mountain  frost  of  silvery  white. 

Currents  of  fragrance,  from  the  orange  tree, 
And  sward  of  violets,  breathing  to  and  fro, 

Mingle,  and  wandering  out  upon  the  sea, 
Refresh  the  idle  boatman  where  they  blow, 


320 


BRYANT'S  POEMS, 


Yet  even  here,  as  under  harsher  climes, 
Tears  for  the  loved  and  early  lost  are  shed, 

That  soft  air  saddens  with  the  funeral  chimes, 
Those  shining  flowers  are  gathered  for  the 
dead. 

Here  once  a  child,  a  smiling  playful  one, 
All  the  day  long  caressing  and  caressed, 

Died  when  its  little  tongue  had  just  begun 
To  lisp  the  names  of  those  it  loved  the  best. 

The  father  strove  his  struggling  grief  to  quell, 
The  mother  wept  as  mothers  use  to  weep, 

Two  little  sisters  wearied  them  to  tell 

When  their  dear  Carlo  would  awake  from 
sleep. 

Within  an  inner  room  his  couch  they  spread, 
His  funeral  couch  ;  with  mingled  grief  and 
love, 

They  laid  a  crown  of  roses  on  his  head, 

And  murmured,  Brighter  is  his  crown  above. 

They  scattered  round  him,  on  the  snowy  sheet, 
Laburnum's  strings  of  sunny  colored  gems, 

Sad  hyacinths,  and  violets  dim  and  sweet, 
And  orange  blossoms  on  their  dark  green 
stems. 


THE  CHILD'S  FUNERAL. 


And  now  the  hour  is  come,  the  priest  is  there  ; 

Torches  are  lit  and  bells  are  tolled  ;  they  go, 
With  solemn  rites  of  blessing  and  of  prayer, 

To  lay  the  dear  remains  in  earth  below. 

The  door  is  opened  ;  hark  !  that  quick  glad  cry, 
Carlo  has  waked,  has  waked,  and  is  at  play, 

The  little  sisters  laugh  and  leap,  and  try 
To  climb  the  bed  on  which  the  infant  lay. 

And  there  he  sits  alone,  and  gayly  shakes 

In  his  full  hands,  the  blossoms  red  and  white, 
And  smiles  with  winking  eyes,  like  one  who 
wakes 

From  long  deep  slumbers  at  the  morninglight. 

21 


A  SERENADE. 

(FROM  THE  SPANISH.) 


If  slumber,  sweet  Lisena  ! 

Have  stolen  o'er  thine  eyes, 
As  night  steals  o'er  the  glory 

Of  spring's  transparent  skies  ; 

Wake,  in  thy  scorn  and  beauty, 
And  listen  to  the  strain 

That  murmurs  my  devotion, 
That  mourns  for  thy  disdain. 

Here  by  thy  door  at  midnight, 
I  pass  the  dreary  hour, 

With  plaintive  sounds  profaning 
The  silence  of  thy  bower  ; 

A  tale  of  sorrow  cherished 

Too  fondly  to  depart, 
Of  wrong  from  love  the  flatterer, 

And  from  my  own  wild  heart. 


A  SERENADE. 


Twice,  o'er  this  vale,  the  seasons 
Have  brought  and  borne  away 

The  January  tempest, 

The  genial  wind  of  May  ; 

Yet  still  my  plaint  is  uttered, 
My  tears  and  sighs  are  given 

To  earth's  unconscious  waters, 
And  wandering  w7inds  of  heaven. 

I  saw  from  this  fair  region, 
The  smile  of  summer  pass, 

And  myriad  frost-stars  glitter 
Among  the  russet  grass  ; 

While  winter  seized  the  streamlets 
That  fled  along  the  ground, 

And  fast  in  chains  of  crystal 
The  truant  murmurers  bound. 

I  saw  that  to  the  forest 

The  nightingales  had  flown, 

And  every  sweet-voiced  fountain 
Had  hushed  its  silver  tone. 

The  maniac  winds,  divorcing 
The  turtle  from  his  mate, 

Raved  through  the  leafy  beeches, 
And  left  them  desolate. 


324 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


Now  May,  with  life  and  music, 
The  blooming  valley  fills, 

And  rears  her  flowery  arches 
For  all  the  little  rills. 

The  minstrel  bird  of  evening 
Comes  back  on  joyous  wings, 

And,  like  the  harp's  soft  murmur, 
Is  heard  the  gush  of  springs. 

And  deep  within  the  forest 
Are  wedded  turtles  seen, 

Their  nuptial  chambers  seeking — 
Their  chambers  close  and  green. 

The  rugged  trees  are  mingling 
Their  flowery  sprays  in  love  ; 

The  ivy  climbs  the  laurel, 
To  clasp  the  boughs  above. 

They  change — but  thou,  Lisena, 
Art  cold  while  I  complain  : 

Why  to  thy  lover  only 

Should  spring  return  in  vain  ? 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 


WILLIAM  LEGGETT. 


The  earth  may  ring,  from  shore  to  shore, 
With  echoes  of  a  glorious  name, 

But  he,  whose  loss  our  tears  deplore, 
Has  left  behind  him  more  than  fame. 

For  when  the  death  frost  came  to  lie 
On  Leggett's  warm  and  mighty  heart, 

And  quenched  his  bold  and  friendly  eye, 
His  spirit  did  not  all  depart. 

The  words  of  fire  that  from  his  pen 
Were  flung  upon  the  lucid  page, 

Still  move,  still  shake  the  hearts  of  men, 
Amid  a  cold  and  coward  age. 

His  love  of  truth,  too  warm,  too  strong 
For  Hope  or  Fear  to  chain  or  chill, 

His  hate  of  tyranny  and  wrong, 
Burn  in  the  breasts  he  kindled  still. 


AN  EVENING  REVERIE. 

(FROM  AN  UNFINISHED  POEM. ) 


THE  summer  day  is  closed — the  sun  is  set : 
Well  they  have  done  their  office,  those  bright 
hours, 

The  latest  of  whose  train  goes  softly  out 

In  the  red  West.    The  green  blade  of  the  ground 

Has  risen,  and  herds  have  cropped  it ;  the 

young  twig 
Has  spread  its  plaited  tissues  to  the  sun  ; 
Flowers  of  the  garden  and  the  waste  have  blown 
And  withered  ;  seeds  have  fallen  upon  the  soil, 
From  bursting  cells,  and  in  their  graves  await 
Their  resurrection.    Insects  from  the  pools 
Have  filled  the  air  awhile  with  humming  wings, 
That  now  are  still  forever  ;  painted  moths 
Have  wandered  the  blue  sky,  and  died  again  ; 
The  mother  bird  hath  broken,  for  her  brood, 
Their  prison  shell,  or  shoved  them  from  the  nest, 
Plumed  for  their  earliest  flight.    In  bright  al- 
coves, 

In  woodland  cottages  with  barky  walls, 
In  noisome  cells  of  the  tumultuous  town, 


AN   EVENING  REVERIE. 


327 


Mothers  have  clasped  with  joy  the  new-born 
babe. 

Graves  by  the  lonely  forest,  by  the  shore 
Of  rivers  and  of  ocean,  by  the  ways 
Of  the  thronged  city,  have  been  hollowed  out 
And  filled,  and  closed.    This  day  hath  parted 
friends 

That  ne'er  before  were  parted  ;  it  hath  knit 
New  friendships  ;  it  hath  seen  the  maiden  plight 
Her  faith,  and  trust  her  peace  to  him  who  long 
Had  wooed  ;  and  it  hath  heard,  from  lips  which 
late 

Were  eloquent  of  love,  the  first  harsh  word, 
That  told  the  wedded  one  her  peace  was  flown. 
Farewell  to  the  sweet  sunshine  !    One  glad  day 
Is  added  now  to  Childhood's  merry  days, 
And  one  calm  day  to  those  of  quiet  Age. 
Still  the  fleet  hours  run  on  ;  and  as  I  lean, 
Amid  the  thickening  darkness,  lamps  are  lit, 
By  those  who  watch  the  dead,  and  those  who 
twine 

Flowers  for  the  bride.    The  mother  from  the 
eyes 

Of  her  sick  infant  shades  the  painful  light, 
And  sadly  listens  to  his  quick-drawn  breath. 

Oh  thou  great  Movement  of  the  Universe, 
Or  Change,  or  Flight  of  Time — for  ye  are  one  ! 
That  bearest,  silently,  this  visible  scene 
Into  night's  shadow  and  the  streaming  rays 
Of  starlight,  whither  art  thou  bearing  me  ? 


J28 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


I  feel  the  mighty  current  sweep  me  on, 
Yet  know  not  whither.    Man  foretells  afar 
The  courses  of  the  stars  ;  the  very  hour 
He  knows  when  they  shall  darken  or  grow 
bright  ; 

Yet  doth  the  eclipse  of  Sorrow  and  of  Death 
Come  unforewarned.    Who  next,  of  those  I 
love, 

Shall  pass  from  life,  or,  sadder  yet,  shall  fall 
From  virtue  ?    Strife  with  foes,  or  bitterer  strife 
With  friends,  or  shame  and  general  scorn  of 
men — 

Which  who  can  bear  ? — or  the  fierce  rack  of 
pain, 

Lie  they  within  my  path  ?    Or  shall  the  years 
Push  me,  with  soft  and  inoffensive  pace, 
Into  the  stilly  twilight  of  my  age  ? 
Or  do  the  portals  of  another  life 
Even  now,  while  I  am  glorying  in  my  strength, 
Impend  around  me  ?    Oh  !  beyond  that  bourne, 
In  the  vast  cycle  of  being  which  begins 
At  that  broad  threshold,  with  what  fairer  forms 
Shall  the  great  law  of  change  and  progress 
clothe 

Its    workings?    Gently  —  so  have  good  men 
taught — - 

Gently,  and  without  grief,  the  old  shall  glide 
Into  the  new  ;  the  eternal  flow  of  things, 
Like  a  bright  river  of  the  fields  of  heaven, 
Shall  journey  onward  in  perpetual  peace. 


THE  PAINTED  CUP. 


The  fresh  savannas  of  the  Sangamon 
Here  rise  in  gentle  swells,  and  the  long  grass 
Is  mixed  with  rustling  hazels.    Scarlet  tufts 
Are  glowing  in  the  green,  like  flakes  of  fire  ; 
The  wanderers  of  the  prairie  know  them  well, 
And  call  that  brilliant  flower  the  Painted  Cup. 

Now,  if  thou  art  a  poet,  tell  me  not 
That  these  bright  chalices  were  tinted  thus 
To  hold  the  dew  for  fairies,  when  they  meet 
On  moonlight  evenings  in  the  hazel  bowers, 
And  dance  till  they  are  thirsty.    Call  not  up, 
Amid  this  fresh  and  virgin  solitude, 
The  faded  fancies  of  an  elder  world  ; 
But  leave  these  scarlet  cups  to  spotted  moths 
Of  June,  and  glistening  flies,  and  humming- 
birds, 

To  drink  from,  when  on  all  these  boundless 
lawns 

The  morning  sun  looks  hot.  Or  let  the  wind 
Q'erturn  in  sport  their  ruddy  brims,  and  pour 
A  sudden  shower  upon  the  strawberry  plant, 


330 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


To  swell  the  reddening  fruit  that  even  now 
Breathes  a  slight  fragrance  from  the  sunny  slope. 

But  thou  art  of  a  gayer  fancy.    Well — 
Let  then  the  gentle  Manitou  of  flowers, 
Lingering  amid  the  bloomy  waste  he  loves, 
Though  all  his  swarthy  worshippers  are  gone- 
Slender  and  small,  his  rounded  cheek  all  brown 
And  ruddy  with  the  sunshine  ;  let  him  come 
On  summer  mornings,  when  the  blossoms  wake, 
And  part  with  little  hands  the  spiky  grass  ; 
And  touching,  with  his  cheery  lips,  the  edge 
Of  these  bright  beakers,  drain  the  gathered  dew. 


A  DREAM. 


I  HAD  a  dream — a  strange,  wild  dream — 

Said  a  dear  voice  at  early  light ; 
And  even  yet  its  shadows  seem 

To  linger  in  my  waking  sight. 

Earth,  green  with  spring,  and  fresh  with  dew, 
And  bright  with  morn,  before  me  stood ; 

And  airs  just  wakened  softly  blew 
On  the  young  blossoms  of  the  wood. 

Birds  sang  within  the  sprouting  shade, 
Bees  hummed  amid  the  whispering  grass, 

And  children  prattled  as  they  played 
Beside  the  rivulet's  dimpling  glass. 

Fast  climbed  the  sun — the  flowers  were  flown, 
There  played  no  children  in  the  glen  ; 

For  some  were  gone,  and  some  were  grown 
To  blooming  dames  and  bearded  men. 


332 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


'Twas  noon,  'twas  summer — I  beheld 
Woods  darkening  in  the  flush  of  day, 

And  that  bright  rivulet  spread  and  swelled, 
A  mighty  stream,  with  creek  and  bay. 

And  here  was  love,  and  there  was  strife, 
And  mirthful  shouts,  and  wrathful  cries, 

And  strong  men,  struggling  as  for  life, 
With  knotted  limbs  and  angry  eyes. 

Now  stooped  the  sun — the  shades  grew  thin  ; 

The  rustling  paths  were  piled  with  leaves  ; 
And  sun-burnt  groups  were  gathering  in, 

From  the  shorn  field,  its  fruits  and  sheaves. 

The  river  heaved  with  sullen  sounds  ; 

The  chilly  wind  was  sad  with  moans  ; 
Black  hearses  passed,  and  burial-grounds 

Grew  thick  with  monumental  stones. 

Still  waned  the  day  ;  the  wind  that  chased 
The  jagged  clouds  blew  chiller  yet ; 

The  woods  were  stripped,  the  fields  were  waste 
The  wintry  sun  was  near  its  set. 

And  of  the  young,  and  strong  and  fair, 
A  lonely  remnant,  gray  and  weak, 

Lingered,  and  shivered  to  the  air 
Of  that  bleak  shore  and  water  bleak. 


A  DREAM. 


Ah  !  age  is  drear,  and  death  is  cold  ! 

I  turned  to  thee,  for  thou  wert  near, 
And  saw  thee  withered,  bowed,  and  old, 

And  woke,  all  faint  with  sudden  fear. 

'Twas  thus  I  heard  the  dreamer  say, 
And  bade  her  clear  her  clouded  brow  ; 

"  For  thou  and  I,  since  childhood's  day, 
Have  walked  in  such  a  dream  till  now. 

"  Watch  we  in  calmness,  as  they  rise, 
The  changes  of  that  rapid  dream, 

And  note  its  lessons,  till  our  eyes 
Shall  open  in  the  morning  beam." 


THE  ANTIQUITY  OF  FREEDOM. 


HERE  are  old  trees,  tall  oaks  and  gnarled 
pines, 

That  stream  with  gray-green  mosses  ;  here  the 
ground 

Was  never  trenched  by  spade,  and  flowers  spring 
up 

Unsown,  and  die  ungathered.    It  is  sweet 
To  linger  here,  among  the  flitting  birds, 
And  leaping  squirrels,  wandering  brooks,  and 
winds 

That  shake  the  leaves,  and  scatter,  as  they  pass, 
A  fragrance  from  the  cedars,  thickly  set 
With   pale   blue   berries.    In  these  peaceful 
shades — 

Peaceful,  unpruned,  immeasurably  old — 

My  thoughts  go  up  the  long  dim  path  of  years, 

Back  to  the  earliest  days  of  liberty. 

Oh  FREEDOM  !  thou  art  not,  as  poets  dream, 
A  fair  young  girl,  with  light  and  delicate  limbs, 
And  wavy  tresses  gushing  from  the  cap 


THE  ANTIQUITY  OF  FREEDOM.  335 


With  which  the  Roman  master  crowned  his  slave 
When  he  took  off  the  gyves.    A  bearded  man, 
Armed  to  the  teeth,  art  thou  ;  one  mailed  hand 
Grasps  the  broad  shield,  and  one  the  sword  ;  thy 
brow, 

Glorious  in  beauty  though  it  be,  is  scarred 
With  tokens  of  old  wars  ;  thy  massive  limbs 
Are  strong  with  struggling.    Power  at  thee  has 
launched 

His  bolts,  and  with  his  lightnings  smitten  thee  ; 
They  could  not  quench  the  life  thou  hast  from 
heaven. 

Merciless  power  has  dug  thy  dungeon  deep, 
And  his  swart  armorers,  by  a  thousand  fires, 
Have  forged  thy  chain  ;  yet,  while  he  deems  thee 
bound, 

The  links  are  shivered,  and  the  prison  walls 
Fall  outward  :  terribly  thou  springest  forth, 
As  springs  the  flame  above  a  burning  pile, 
And  shoutest  to  the  nations,  who  return 
Thy  shoutings,  while  the  pale  oppressor  flies. 
Thy    birthright  was  not  given    by  human 
hands : 

Thou  wert  twin-born  with  man.     In  pleasant 
fields, 

While  yet  our  race  was  few,  thou  sat'st  with  hims 
To  tend  the  quiet  flock  and  watch  the  stars, 
And  teach  the  reed  to  utter  simple  airs. 
Thou  by  his  side,  amid  the  tangled  wood, 
Didst  war  upon  the  panther  and  the  wolf, 


336 


BRYANT'S  POEMS. 


His  only  foes  ;  and  thou  with  him  didst  draw 
The  earliest  furrows  on  the  mountain  side, 
Soft  with  the  deluge.    Tyranny  himself, 
Thy  enemy,  although  of  reverend  look, 
Hoary  with  many  years,  and  far  obeyed, 
Is  later  born  than  thou  ;  and  as  he  meets 
The  grave  defiance  of  thine  elder  eye, 
The  usurper  trembles  in  his  fastnesses. 

Thou  shalt  wax  stronger  with  the  lapse  of 
years, 

But  he  shall  fade  into  a  feebler  age  ; 
Feebler,  yet  subtler.    He  shall  weave  his  snares, 
And  spring  them  on  thy  careless  steps,  and  clap 
His  withered  hands,  and  from  their  ambush  call 
His  hordes  to  fall  upon  thee.     He  shall  send 
Quaint  maskers,  forms  of  fair  and  gallant  mien, 
To  catch  thy  gaze,  and  uttering  graceful  words 
To  charm  thy  ear  ;  while  his  sly  imps,  by  stealth, 
Twine  around  thee  threads  of  steel,  light  thread 
on  thread, 

That  grow  to  fetters  ;  or  bind  down  thy  arms 
With  chains  concealed  in  chaplets.    Oh  !  not 
yet 

May'st  thou  unbrace  thy  corslet,  nor  lay  by 
Thy  sword  ;  nor  yet,  O  Freedom  !  close  thy  lids 
In  slumber  ;  for  thine  enemy  never  sleeps, 
And  thou  must  watch  and  combat  till  the  day 
Of  the  new  earth  and  heaven.    But  wouldst 
thou  rest 

Awhile  from  tumult  and  the  frauds  of  men, 


THE  ANTIQUITY  OF  FREEDOM.  337 


These  old  and  friendly  solitudes  invite 
Thy  visit.    They,  while  yet  the  forest  trees 
Were  young  upon  the  unviolated  earth, 
And  yet  the  moss-stains  on  the  rock  were  new, 
Beheld  thy  glorious  childhood,  and  rejoiced. 
22 


NOTES. 


Page  7.— Poem  of  the  Ages. 
In  this  poem,  written  and  first  printed  in  the  year  182 1,  the 
Author  has  endeavored,  from  a  survey  of  the  past  ages  of  the 
world,  and  of  the  successive  advances  of  mankind  in  knowledge, 
virtue,  and  happiness,  to  justify  and  confirm  the  hopes  of  the 
philanthropist  for  the  future  destinies  of  the  human  race. 

Page  49. — The  Prairies. 
The  surface  rolls  and  fluctuates  to  the  eye. 
The  prairies  of  the  West  with  an  undulating  surface,  rolling 
prairies,  as  they  are  called,  present  to  the  unaccustomed  eye  a 
singular  spectacle  when  the  shadows  of  the  clouds  are  passing 
rapidly  over  them.  The  face  of  the  ground  seems  to  fluctuate 
and  toss  like  the  billows  of  the  sea. 

Page  49.  the  prairie -hawk  that,  poised  on  high, 

Flaps  his  broad  wings,  yet  moves  not. 
I  have  seen  the  prairie-hawk  balancing  himself  in  the  air  for 
hours  together,  apparently  over  the  same  spot  ;  probably  watch- 
ing his  prey. 

Page  51.  .     These  ample  fields 

Nourished  their  harvests. 
The  size  and  extent  of  the  mounds  in  the  valley  of  the  Mis- 
sissippi, indicate  the  existence,  at  a  remote  period,  of  a  nation 
at  once  populous  and  laborious,  and  therefore  grobably  subsist- 
ing by  agriculture. 


34o 


NOTES. 


Page  52.  the  rude  conquerors 

Seated  the  captive  with  their  chiefs. 
Instances  are  not  wanting  of  generosity  like  this  among  the 
North  American  Indians  toward  a  captive  or  survivor  of  a  hos- 
tile tribe  on  which  the  greatest  cruelties  had  been  exercised. 

Page  93. — The  Indian  Girl's  Lament. 
Her  maiden  veil,  her  ozvn  black  hair,  etc. 
"  The  unmarried  females  have  a  modest  falling  down  of  the 
hair  over  the  eyes." — Eliot. 

Page  98. — The  Massacre  at  Scio. 
This  poem,  written  about  the  time  of  the  horrible  butchery 
of  the  Sciotes  by  the  Turks,  in  1824,  has  been  more  fortunate 
than  most  poetical  predictions.  The  independence  of  the  Greek 
nation,  which  it  foretold,  has  come  to  pass,  and  the  massacre, 
by  inspiring  a  deeper  detestation  of  their  oppressors,  did  much 
to  promote  that  event. 

Page  107. — Monument  Mountain. 
The  mountain,  called  by  this  name,  is  a  remarkable  precipice 
in  Great  Barrington,  overlooking  the  rich  and  picturesque  valley 
of  the  Housatonic,  in  the  western  part  of  Massachusetts.  At  the 
southern  extremity  is,  or  was  a  few  years  since,  a  conical  pile 
of  small  stones,  erected,  according  to  the  tradition  of  the  sur- 
rounding country,  by  the  Indians,  in  memory  of  a  woman  of 
the  Stockbridge  tribe,  who  killed  herself  by  leaping  from  the 
edge  of  the  precipice.  Until  within  a  few  years  past,  small  par- 
ties of  that  tribe  used  to  arrive  from  their  settlement  in  the 
western  part  of  the  State  of  New  York,  on  visits  to  Stockbridge, 
the  place  of  their  nativity  and  former  residence.  A  young 
woman  belonging  to  one  of  these  parties  related  to  a  friend  of 
the  author  the  story  on  which  the  poem  of  Monument  Mountain 
is  founded.  An  Indian  girl  had  formed  an  attachment  for  her 
cousin,  which,  according  to  the  customs  of  the  tribe,  was  unlaw- 
ful. She  was,  in  consequence,  seized  with  a  deep  melancholy, 
and  resolved  to  destroy  herself.  In  company  with  a  female 
friend  she  repaired  to  the  mountain,  decked  out  for  the  occasion 


NOTES. 


34i 


in  all  her  ornaments,  and,  after  passing  the  day  on  its  summit 
in  singing  with  her  companion  the  traditional  songs  of  her  na- 
tion, she  threw  herself  headlong  from  the  rock,  and  was  killed. 

Page  113. — The  Murdered  Traveller. 
Some  years  since,  in  the  month  of  May,  the  remains  of  a 
human  body,  partly  devoured  by  wild  animals,  were  found  in  a 
woody  ravine,  near  a  solitary  road  passing  between  the  moun- 
tains west  of  the  village  of  Stockbridge.  It  was  supposed  that 
the  person  came  to  his  death  by  violence,  but  no  traces  could  be 
discovered  of  his  murderers.  It  was  only  recollected  that  one 
evening  in  the  course  of  the  previous  winter  a  traveller  had 
stopped  at  an  inn  in  the  village  of  West  Stockbridge  ;  that  he 
had  inquired  the  way  to  Stockbridge  ;  and  that,  in  paying  the 
innkeeper  for  something  he  had  ordered,  it  appeared  that  he 
had  a  considerable  sum  of  money  in  his  possession.  Two  ill- 
looking  men  were  present,  and  went  out  about  the  same  time 
that  the  traveller  proceeded  on  his  journey.  During  the  winter, 
also,  two  men  of  shabby  appearance,  but  plentifully  supplied 
with  money,  had  lingered  for  awhile  about  the  village  of  Stock- 
bridge.  Several  years  afterward  a  criminal,  about  to  be  exe- 
cuted for  a  capital  offence  in  Canada,  confessed  that  he  had 
been  concerned  in  murdering  a  traveller  in  Stockbridge  for  the 
sake  of  his  money.  Nothing  was  ever  discovered  respecting 
the  name  or  residence  of  the  person  murdered. 

Page  117. — The  African  Chief. 

Chained  in  the  market-place  he  stood,  etc. 

The  story  of  the  African  Chief,  related  in  this  ballad,  may  be 
found  in  the  African  Repository  for  April,  1825.  The  subject 
of  it  was  a  warrior  of  majestic  stature,  the  brother  of  Yarradee, 
kmg  of  the  Solima  nation.  He  had  been  taken  in  battle,  and 
was  brought  in  chains  for  sale  to  the  Rio  Pongas,  where  he  was 
exhibited  in  the  market-place,  his  ankles  still  adorned  with  the 
massy  rings  of  gold  which  he  wore  when  captured.  The  refusal 
of  his  captor  to  listen  to  his  offers  of  ransom  drove  him  mad, 
and  he  died  a  maniac. 


342 


NOTES, 


Page  125. — The  Hunter's  Serenade, 
A  nd  stoops  the  slim  papaya,  etc. 

Papaya — papaw,  custard-apple.  Flint,  in  his  excellent  work 
on  the  Geography  and  History  of  the  Western  States,  thus  de- 
scribes this  tree  and  its  fruit  : 

"  A  papaw  shrub  hanging  full  of  fruits,  of  a  size  and  weight 
so  disproportioned  to  the  stem,  and  from  under  long  and  rich- 
looking  leaves,  of  the  same  yellow  with  the  ripened  fruit,  and  of 
an  African  luxuriance  of  growth,  is  to  us  one  of  the  richest  spec- 
tacles that  we  have  ever  contemplated  in  the  array  of  the  woods. 
The  fruit  contains  from  two  to  six  seeds,  like  those  of  the  tama- 
rind, except  that  they  are  double  the  size.  The  pulp  of  the 
fruit  resembles  egg  custard  in  consistence  and  appearance.  It 
has  the  same  creamy  feeling  in  the  mouth,  and  unites  the  taste 
of  eggs,  cream,  sugar,  and  spice.  It  is  a  natural  custard,  too 
luscious  for  the  relish  of  most  people." 

Chateaubriand,  in  his  Travels,  speaks  disparagingly  of  the 
fruit  of  the  papaw  ;  but  on  the  authority  of  Mr.  Flint,  who 
must  know  more  of  the  matter,  I  have  ventured  to  make  my 
western  lover  enumerate  it  among  the  delicacies  of  the  wilder- 
ness. 

Page  128. — Song  of  Marion's  Men. 

The  exploits  of  General  Francis  Marion,  the  famous  partisan 
warrior  of  South  Carolina,  form  an  interesting  chapter  in  the 
annals  of  the  American  revolution.  The  British  troops  were  so 
harassed  by  the  irregular  and  successful  warfare  which  he  kept 
up  at  the  head  of  a  few  daring  followers,  that  they  sent  an  officer 
to  remonstrate  with  him  for  not  coming  into  the  open  field  and 
fighting  "  like  a  gentleman  and  a  Christian," 

Page  133. — Love  and  Folly. — (From  La  Fontaine.) 
This  is  rather  an  imitation  than  a  translation  of  the  poem  of 
the  graceful  French  fabulist. 

Page  135. — Fatima  and  Raduan. 

This,  and  the  following  poems,  belong  to  that  class  of  ancient 
Spanish  ballads  by  unknown  authors,  called  Romances  Moriseos 


NOTES, 


343 


— Moriscan  romances  or  ballads.  They  were  composed  in  the 
14th  century,  some  of  them,  probably,  by  the  Moors,  who  then 
lived  intermingled  with  the  Christians  ;  and  they  relate  the  loves 
and  achievements  of  the  knights  of  Grenada. 

Page  140. — The  Death  of  Aliatur. 

Say,  Love — for  thou  didst  see  her  tears,  etc. 

The  stanza  beginning  with  this  line  stands  thus  in  the  origi- 
nal : — 

Dilo  tu,  amor,  si  lo  viste  ; 

J  Mas  ay  !  que  de  lastimado 
Diste  otro  nudo  a  la  venda, 

Para  no  ver  lo  que  ha  pasado. 

I  am  sorry  to  find  so  poor  a  conceit  deforming  so  spirited  a 
composition  as  this  old  ballad,  but  I  have  preserved  it  in  the 
version.  It  is  one  of  those  extravagances  which  afterward  be- 
came so  common  in  Spanish  poetry  when  Gongora  introduced 
the  estilo  culto,  as  it  was  called. 

Page  143. — The  Alcayde  of  Molina. 

These  eyes  shall  not  recall  thee,  etc. 

This  is  the  very  expression  of  the  original.  No  te  llamardn 
mis  ojos,  etc.  The  Spanish  poets  early  adopted  the  practice  of 
calling  a  lady  by  the  name  of  the  most  expressive  feature  of  her 
countenance,  her  eyes.  The  lover  styled  his  mistress  "ojos 
bellos,"  beautiful  eyes,  "ojos  serenos,"  serene  eyes.  Green 
eyes  seem  to  have  been  anciently  thought  a  great  beauty  in 
Spain,  and  there  is  a  very  pretty  ballad  by  an  absent  lover,  in 
which  he  addressed  his  lady  by  the  title  of  "  green  eyes,"  sup- 
plicating that  he  may  remain  in  her  remembrance. 

.  .  J  Ay  ojuelos  verdes  ! 

Ay  los  mis  ojuelos  ! 
Ay,  hagan  los  cielos 
Que  de  mi  te  acuerdes  I 


344 


NOTES, 


Page  151. — From  the  Spanish  of  Pedro  de  Castro  y  Anaya, 

Las  Auroras  de  Diana,  in  which  the  original  of  these  lines  is 
contained,  is,  notwithstanding  it  was  praised  by  Lope  de  Vega, 
one  of  the  worst  of  the  old  Spanish  romances,  being  a  tissue  of 
riddles  and  affectations,  with  now  and  then  a  little  poem  ot 
considerable  beauty. 

Page  159. — Love  in  the  Age  of  Chivalry. 

This  personification  of  the  passion  of  Love,  by  Peyre  Vidal, 
has  been  referred  to  as  a  proof  of  how  little  the  Provencal  poets 
were  indebted  to  the  authors  of  Greece  and  Rome  for  the  imag- 
ery of  their  poems.' 

Page  161. — The  Love  of  God. —  (From  the  Provencal  of 
Bernard  Rascas.) 
The  original  of  these  lines  is  thus  given  by  John  of  Nostrada- 
mus, in  his  lives  of  the  Troubadours,  in  a  barbarous  Frenchi- 
fied orthography  : — 

Touta  kausa  mortala  una  fes  perira, 

Fors  que  1' amour  de  Dieu,  que  tousiours  durara. 

Tous  nostres  cors  vendran  essuchs,  coma  fa  l'eska, 

Lous  Aubres  leyssaran  lour  verdour  tendra  e  fresca, 

Lous  Auselets  del  bosc  perdran  lour  kant  subtyeu, 

E  non  s'auzira  plus  lou  Rossignol  gentyeu. 

Lous  Buols  al  Pastourgage,  e  las  blankas  fedettas 

Sent' ran  lous  agulhons  de  las  mortals  Sagettas, 

Lous  crestas  d' Aries  fiers,  Renards,  e  Loups  espars, 

Kabrols,  Cervys,  Chamous,  Senglars  de  toutes  pars, 

Lous  Ours  hardys  e  forts,  seran  poudra,  e  Arena, 

Lou  Daulphin  en  la  Mar,  lou  Ton,  e  la  Balena, 

Monstres  impetuous,  Ryaumes,  e  Comtas, 

Lous  Princes,  e  lous  Reys,  seran  per  mort  domtas. 

E  nota  ben  eysso  kascun  :  la  Terra  granda, 

(Ou  l'Escritura  ment)  lou  fermament  que  branda, 

Prendra  autra  hgura.    Enfin  tout  perira, 

Fors  que  1' Amour  de  Dieu,  que  touiour  durara. 


NOTES. 


34S 


Page  163. — The  Hurricane. 

This  poem  is  nearly  a  translation  from  one  by  Jose  Maria  de 
Heredia,  a  native  of  the  Island  of  Cuba,  who  published  at  New 
York,  six  or  seven  years  since,  a  volume  of  poems  in  the  Span- 
ish language. 

Page  187. — Sonnet — William  Tell. 
Neither  this,  nor  any  of  the  other  sonnets  in  the  volume,  with 
the  exception  of  the  one  from  the  Portuguese,  is  framed  accord- 
ing to  the  legitimate  Italian  model,  which,  in  the  author's 
opinion,  possesses  no  peculiar  beauty  for  an  ear  accustomed  only 
to  the  metrical  forms  of  our  own  language.  The  sonnets  in  this 
collection  are  rather  poems  in  fourteen  lines  than  sonnets. 

Page  203. — The  Conjunction  of  Jupiter  and  Venus. 

This  conjunction  was  said  in  the  common  calendars  to  have 
taken  place  on  the  2d  of  August,  1826.  This,  I  believe,  was 
an  error,  but  the  apparent  approach  of  the  planets  was  suffi- 
ciently near  for  poetical  purposes. 

Page  241. — The  Burial-Place. 
The  first  half  of  this  fragment  may  seem  to  the  reader  bor- 
rowed from  the  essay  on  Rural  Funerals  in  the  4th  number  of 
the  Sketch  Book.  The  lines  were,  however,  written  more  than 
a  year  before  that  number  appeared.  The  poem,  unfinished  as 
it  is,  would  not  have  been  admitted  into  this  collection,  had 
not  the  author  been  unwilling  to  lose  what  had  the  honor  of 
resembling  so  beautiful  a  composition. 

Page  295. — The  Fountain. 

 the  flower 

Of  Sanguinaria,  from  whose  brittle  stem 
The  red  drops  fell  like  blood. 

The  Sanguinaria  Canadensis,  or  blood-root  as  it  is  common- 
ly called,  bears  a  delicate  white  flower  of  a  musky  scent,  the 
stem  of  which  breaks  easily,  and  distils  a  juice  of  a  bright  red 
color. 


346 


NOTES. 


Page  304. — The  Green  Mountain  Boys. 
This  song  refers  to  the  expedition  of  the  Vermonters,  com- 
manded by  Ethan  Allen,  by  whom  the  British  fort  of  Ticonde- 
roga  on  Lake  Champlain  was  surprised  and  taken  in  May,  1785. 

Page  306. — The  Death  of  Schiller. 

'Tis  said,  when  Schiller* s  death  drew  nigh, 
The  wish  possessed  his  mighty  mind, 

To  wander  forth  wherever  lie 

The  homes  and  haunts  of  humankind. 

Shortly  before  the  death  of  Schiller,  he  was  seized  with  a 
strong  desire  to  travel  in  foreign  countries,  as  if  his  spirit  had  a 
presentiment  of  its  approaching  enlargement,  and  already  longed 
to  expatiate  in  a  wider  and  more  varied  sphere  of  existence. 

Page  308. — Life. 

Where  Tsar's  clay-white  rivulets  run 
Through  the  dark  woods  like  frighted  deer. 

Close  to  the  city  of  Munich,  in  Bavaria,  lies  the  spacious  and 
beautiful  pleasure  ground  called  the  English  Garden,  in  which 
these  lines  were  written,  originally  projected  and  laid  out  by  our 
countryman,  Count  Rumford,  under  the  auspices  of  one  of  the 
sovereigns  of  the  country.  Winding  walks  of  great  extent  pass 
through  close  thickets  and  groves  interspersed  with  lawns ;  and 
streams  diverted  from  the  river  Isar  traverse  the  grounds  swift- 
ly in  various  directions,  the  water  of  which,  stained  with  the 
clay  of  the  soil  it  has  corroded  in  its  descent  from  the  upper 
country,  is  frequently  of  a  turbid  white  color. 

Page  316. — The  Old  Man's  Counsel. 

— — —  the  shadbush,  white  with  flowers, 
Brightened  the  glens, _ 

The  small  tree,  named  by  the  botanists  Aronia  botyrapium, 
is  called  in  some  parts  of  our  country,  the  shad-bush,  from  the 
circumstance  that  it  flowers  about  the  time  that  the  shad  ascend 


NOTES. 


347 


the  rivers  in  early  Spring.  Its  delicate  sprays,  covered  with 
white  blossoms  before  the  trees  are  yet  in  leaf,  have  a  singular^ 
ly  beautiful  appearance  in  the  woods. 

Page  317,  —  "  There  hast  thou"  said  my  friend,  "a  fitting  typf 
Of  human  life" 

I  remember  hearing  an  aged  man  in  the  country  compare  the 
slow  movement  of  time  in  early  life  and  its  swift  flight  as  it  ap- 
proaches old  age,  to  the  drumming  of  a  partridge  or  ruffed 
grouse  in  the  woods — the  strokes  falling  slow  and  distinct  at 
first,  and  following  each  other  more  and  more  rapidly,  till  they 
end  at  last  in  a  whirring  sound. 

Page  319. — The  Child's  Funeral. 
The  incident  on  which  this  poem  is  founded,  was  related  to 
the  author  while  in  Europe,  in  a  letter  from  an  English  lady. 
A  child  died  in  the  south  of  Italy,  and  when  they  went  to  bury 
it  they  found  it  revived  and  playing  with  the  flowers  which, 
after  the  manner  of  that  country,  had  been  brought  to  grace  its 
funeral. 

Page  326. — An  Evening  Reverie. — {From  an  unfinished 
poem. ) 

This  poem  and  that  entitled  the  Fountain,  with  one  or  two 
others  in  blank  verse,  were  intended  by  the  author  as  portions 
of  a  larger  poem,  in  which  they  may  hereafter  take  their  place. 

Page  329. — The  Painted  Cup. 

The  fresh  savannas  of  the  Saitgamon 
Here  rise  in  gentle  swells,  and  the  long  grass 
Is  mixed  with  rustling  hazels.    Scarlet  tufts 
Are  glowing  in  the  green,  like  flakes  of  fire. 

The  Painted  Cup,  Euchroma  coccinea,  or  Bartsia  coccinea, 
grows  in  great  abundance  in  the  hazel  prairies  of  the  Western 
States  when  its  scarlet  tufts  make  a  brilliant  appearance  in  the 
midst  of  the  verdure.  The  Sangamon  is  a  beautiful  river,  tribu- 
tary to  the  Illinois,  bordered  with  rich  prairies. 


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